Truths and Covert Lies
by Sashile
Summary: Follows "Of Jews and Gentiles". Eli David is hiding a secret from the rest of the world and asks for Ziva's help, forcing them and everyone they're associated with on a path that tests loyalties around the globe. Tiva.
1. Chapter 1: Opening

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 1--Opening**

_Disclaimer: Sadly enough, nobody offered me NCIS for my birthday, so I still do not own any of the characters, the agency, the Navy Yard, or just about anything else. I will soon own a parking pass in the staff and physician lot at National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, though, so that has to count for something (that sentence will probably make more sense after chapter 2...or not. I'm sleep-deprived and typing things that don't really have anything to do with anything)._

_Summary: Takes place about six weeks after the conclusion of _Of Jews and Gentiles_. Mossad Director Eli David has been hiding a secret from the rest of the world, and asks for his daughter's help in keeping that hidden. She doesn't agree with his plan to do that, which sends the David family and everyone they're associated with into a whirlwind of events that test loyalties across the globe. Oh, and since it follows _Of Jews and Gentiles_, there is quite a lot of Tiva._

_A/N: Unlike most of my stories, I haven't written the first twenty or so chapters before beginning to post (I like to make sure I'm going to be able to finish it before getting you interested in the story line thus far). However, I do have every confidence in my ability to see this one to the end, and in celebration of surviving my very last night of call as a medical student, I decided to start posting with what I have so far. My point is that I won't be giving you the usual chapter-a-day pattern of all of my previous stories, but don't think I'm abandoning you. Like I said, it will be finished. Oh, and on another note, any political figure who makes an appearance (such as the PM of Israel in this chapter) is completely fictional and not in any way based on their real-life counterparts._

_And onto the story..._

* * *

Eli David already had his BlackBerry out of his pocket and in his hand as he exited the building. His attention focused on the small device and the messages it contained, the director of Mossad paid no attention to the three men in sunglasses and suits, two in front of him and one behind. As his bodyguards, it was their job to make sure that the rest of the world noticed them while remaining unobtrusive to the man they would give their lives to protect, if necessary.

He glanced up from his emails and registered the familiar sight of his armored car illegally stopped in front of the building. Well, it would have been illegal, had the car belonged to anyone but the highest ranked intelligence officer in Israel. "Where to, sir?" the driver asked in Hebrew as he held the rear passenger door open.

David stifled a cough deep in his throat before answering. "I have business with the Prime Minister," he replied, stepping into the vehicle without another glance at the driver. The kid—he should probably stop thinking of employees as such, which was difficult, as the driver was probably the same age as his daughter—gave a perfunctory nod, closing the door behind his boss. He had known the director's schedule, of course. The whole protocol of asking for a destination was some sort of security measure that the driver didn't understand, and didn't need to. Knowing how Mossad protected its director wasn't his job; his job was to drive said director wherever he needed to go.

Inside the car, Director David was composing a quick reply to one of the emails that he had received while meeting with—who was that he was just speaking to? He shook his head slightly, not that concerned. The meetings seemed to run together these days, and nothing had been accomplished in that last one. He felt the newly-familiar pressure in his head, and before he could stop himself, was massaging his temples with his hand, his eyes closed and an expression of pain on his face. "Are you okay, sir?" one of the bodyguards asked, concerned.

"Fine," David replied, annoyed. "It is only a headache." He didn't need someone who was essentially hired muscle asking about his health. It was probably just the stress of that last meeting, anyway.

_Except it's not_, a nagging voice told him in the back of his mind. He frowned and cleared his throat slightly before returning his attention to his BlackBerry, choosing to ignore the thought. If he wanted to be dwelling on the state of his health, he'd have to write it into his schedule. He was far too busy for that.

The ride to the parliament house was blessedly brief, his driver having been very well trained on how to get from point A to point B quickly with no regards for traffic. David smiled slightly at the thought as he waited for someone to open his door. Although his driver was good, nobody could handle traffic like his daughter. She had been taught well.

The involuntary thought of his one living child brought the familiar wave of melancholy, the regrets of a parent who knew that he hadn't done enough, and what he had done, done poorly. He didn't have time to dwell on his regrets, however, and that thought was quickly replaced by the concentration required to get his muscles to respond to his brain's commands to exit the vehicle. He covered up the struggle with another glance at his BlackBerry as he finally managed to coordinate the actions of his legs. He somehow kept his posture straight as he followed his bodyguard into the parliament house, one of his aides rambling about one thing or another as he rushed to keep pace with the seemingly-tireless Mossad director.

"Aaron," David finally interrupted, holding up a hand to stop the younger man's rants. "I do not think that is any concern of the Office of the Director."

The young officer blushed fiercely, much to David's amusement. There was no doubt that he had a good amount of European blood in him, with his sandy hair, blue eyes, and fair skin that flushed far too easily, never a good thing in a Mossad officer. It was also amazing he wasn't perpetually burnt from the desert sun. "Of course not, sir. I'm sorry I brought it up, sir."

David nodded as they stepped into a waiting elevator. Thinking about the upcoming meeting, he didn't even notice the slight tremor that had started in his left hand. His aide did notice, however, and subtly backed away. "Maybe you should go to a doctor, sir," he said, slightly nervously. David imagined him to be wondering if there were infectious causes of tremors. There was a reason the young man had been assigned a desk instead of a field position; there were no places for nerves and hypocondriasis amidst weaponry and espionage.

"I have seen my doctor, Aaron," he said coldly, briskly shaking out his hand. "Do not worry; it is nothing contagious." He smirked inwardly when he noticed the young man's cheeks pink again, giving away that that had been his primary concern. "He said it is nothing to worry about." That wasn't technically true; the Austrian physician had run an entire battery of tests, from head CTs to MRIs to blood tests and nerve biopsies. He had said that the tremor was a sign that the disease was getting worse, despite the new treatments they were trying, and encouraged the Mossad director to take things easy. David had nodded his agreement to the words while he had been mentally rolling his eyes; taking it easy wasn't a possibility while running one of the largest intelligence organizations in the world.

He straightened as the elevator stopped at the floor of the prime minister's office and strode easily down the hall, his carefully blank expression giving away none of his thoughts or concerns of his health. As expected, they had about a minute to wait before the PM's executive assistant led them into the inner office. People didn't keep the director of Mossad waiting long.

"Ah, Eli, good to see you, my friend," the prime minister greeted, standing from his chair to shake David's hand. With a flick of his wrist, he excused the majority of his staff, and David's as well, leaving only Director David and the young Mossad officer Aaron, as well as one his own aides. David was temporarily blanking on her name. Rachel? Naomi? It was something out of the Tanakh, but that didn't tell him much—there were about a million Israelis with names from the Tanakh. He mentally scanned his memory while beginning the standard small-talk that all meetings seemed to begin with. _Ruth. _That was it. Ruth Gelden, the latest in a seemingly-endless line of attractive young women who had held that position. David had to resist the temptation to smirk at his knowledge of some of her less-publicized roles as the PM's assistant. He had to admire the man gumption, talking about his wife and small children while sitting next to his mistress.

"And your family?" the prime minister inquired politely after answering David's question to the same with the obvious pride of a doting father.

"Ziva is well. She is still working with NCIS in Washington," David replied. It was his standard answer, which he assumed was still true. The last update he had received from Officer Bashan, six weeks ago, she had had her ankle broken by a rabbi's wife at the conclusion of a long undercover investigation, but he didn't say anything about that; he knew the prime minister didn't care about such things. He also elected not to share the intelligence Bashan had gathered regarding his daughter's Italian-American boyfriend.

"And your recent trip to Austria?" It was both a polite inquiry and a subtle reminder to David that not even the director of Mossad had any secrets. Knowing that this was what the PM was implying, David smiled slightly. _If only you knew, Mr. Prime Minister_, he thought snidely.

"It went well," he replied with a nod. "If there is one thing that can be counted on, it is the guilt of Europeans when it comes to the State of Israel." That was related to a lesson he had unintentionally taught Ziva at an early age. She had asked why he was doing more household chores than he usually did. He had replied that power is something that is given by somebody else, and for a variety of reasons. Some people gave power to others out of respect, some out of fear, some out of guilt. In his case, it was a little bit of fear and a little bit of respect—his wife had recently given birth to their youngest daughter, Tali. He had told Ziva that no matter the reason for someone giving power, you should never hesitate to take advantage of it. In that innocent manner that only six-year-olds could manage, she asked why her mother was taking advantage of power over him, and he never took advantage of power over her. He didn't think she would have understood his reasonings for that.

They were in the middle of a discussion about Russia when the pressure in Director David's was again too much for him to bear. He brought his right hand to his forehead and rubbed his temples as the prime minister continued to drone on before the other man noticed his lack of attention. "I hope I am not boring you, Eli," the prime minister commented dryly.

"I apologize," David replied. "Headache. An occupational hazard these days, I believe." They both chuckled slightly at the words.

"If it is too much—"

"No," the Mossad director interrupted. "Please, continue." The prime minister picked up where he left off, but David found himself unable to follow the man's words, almost as if he were speaking a language other than Hebrew. He tried to concentrate further to see if he could figure out what language the man was speaking, but it sounded unlike anything David had ever heard—a difficult feat, considering he was fluent or nearly so in nine languages and had a rudimentary knowledge in six others. He blinked hard a few times in efforts of focusing, but it seemed to have the opposite effect, as his vision also began to swim. _Well, that's new,_ he thought, just before losing consciousness.

He came to when the paramedics were loading him onto a gurney. His mouth felt extremely dry, and it took swallowing a few times to work up the ability to speak. "Aaron," he rasped. His aide immediately rushed to his side.

"Yes, Director?"

The look in David's eyes was intense. It was the same look he used to interrogate terrorists and spies when still working in the field, the same look that made his daughters burst into tears when he had caught them misbehaving as children. "You must hide this," he ordered. "If there is any record of the director of Mossad being admitted to the hospital, there is no saying what will happen."

The young agent nodded solemnly; the events of the Gaza Strip from several months ago still fresh in his mind. If Hamas was that bold with a perfectly healthy Mossad director watching them, there was no saying what they would do if they knew he was out of commission. "I will take care of it, sir."

Director David nodded before shifting subtly on the gurney, bringing his again-trembling arm under his body. "And Aaron… There is one more thing."

"Yes, Director?"

"Ziva… My daughter should know what is happening. My secretary has her number in Washington."

"And what should I tell her, Director?"

"Just tell her… Just tell her the truth. She deserves that much, at least."


	2. Chapter 2

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 2**

_A/N: Wow, thanks for all the reviews! Keep them coming; I love to hear what you think--and don't hesitate with any criticism, either. I won't know how to make it better if you don't tell me what I'm doing wrong._

_Thanks for all the well-wishes as well. I'm really excited about moving to DC to begin my residency at Walter Reed and Bethesda (it's a combined Army-Navy program), much like that of a character who will make a cameo appearance in this chapter. _

_And to everyone who guessed Director David's ailment... you're all wrong :) Don't feel bad; you didn't miss anything obvious, and Parkinson's is a good guess. Actual diagnosis to be revealed in a later chapter..._

_And now onto the story._

* * *

NCIS Special Agent Tony DiNozzo glanced up at his partner and stared at her for a long minute, hoping to activate some sort of finely-honed, super-ninja sense that told her when she was being watched. He failed. She turned another page in her magazine, her expression still blank.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the door to the already-cramped clinic examining room began to open before he got the opportunity. The doctor, a now-familiar slight Asian woman wearing a long white coat over her scrubs, brightened as she registered who was sitting there. "Ziva!" she said, her voice revealing her surprise. "I didn't know you were on the schedule for today."

"Technically, I am not," Mossad Officer Ziva David replied, a smile of her own on her face. She nodded toward the examining table. "Today, it is Tony who is here for follow-up."

"Well, that would explain why I have his chart," Dr. Emily Shin replied with a chuckle. "Has it been six weeks already?" The two NCIS agents met the second-year orthopedic surgery resident, an Army captain technically assigned to Walter Reed Army Medical Center, when DiNozzo had been brought into the emergency department at NNMC after getting shot in the arm.

"Yes, yes it has," DiNozzo replied to Dr. Shin's question, his voice slightly annoyed. He knew most of his current frustrations weren't the surgeon's fault, but being ignored in favor of his partner wasn't helping his mood much. "I just need you to sign my return to work form so I can stop spending my days staring at cold case files."

"How about if I examine your arm first?" Shin asked in reply, a grin on her face. She crossed to the computer to log in. As the x-ray program was loading, she again turned to Officer David. "I accidentally found this great biking path last weekend. I ended up getting lost and did a hundred mile day when I only planned on seventy, but it was really nice and actually pretty scenic."

"You biked a hundred miles in this heat?" DiNozzo asked, bewildered. "Why would anyone—." He stopped talking when he saw the look on Ziva's face and remembered why they were arguing in the first place. With her ankle broken and her leg in a walking cast, running wasn't exactly an option for the Mossad officer. While he was still under anesthesia after Dr. Shin and the senior orthopedist operated on his arm, Shin and Ziva started talking, and in the course of the conversation, it came out that the surgeon was a competitive triathlete. She had gotten into the sport when she had taken up biking and swimming to cross-train while recovering from an injury similar to Ziva's that kept her from running. The next thing he knew, instead of being woken at 0500 to go running, DiNozzo was waking up at that same time to go biking.

He hated biking.

If that were it—just a couple of months of biking before Ziva could go back to her usual morning six-mile run—he would have been fine. He could suck it up for two or three months until she was cleared to run. But it didn't look like the hobby was going to be stopping any time soon. At first, it was a three thousand dollar bike that she had bought for herself. He had frowned when that contraption of aluminum or whatever it was made of first appeared in his apartment, but didn't say anything. It was her money, after all, and she could spend it on whatever she wanted. He would have rather she put the money toward replacing her Mini Cooper with something, well, cooler, but he didn't really have a say in the matter.

And then she went and bought him an equally expensive bike from the same manufacturer.

He didn't know why he couldn't accept that for what it was—a gift and offer to include him in another aspect of her life. Hell, he could have just looked at it as a _bike_. The hundred dollar bike he got from the Navy Exchange at the Navy Yard didn't have a prayer of allowing him to keep up with Ziva on her fancy new racing bike, so from a practical standpoint, he would need something else if he was going to continue these morning work-out sessions with her, assuming he didn't want her to kill him as a result of her frustration with having to slow down on his account. But he _hated_ biking, and the sight of the fancy new bikes was a sure sign that it wasn't going away any time soon.

It was also a sign that _she_ wasn't going away any time soon. Maybe if he was honest with himself, he would admit that that was what scared him the most. He could tell by the look in her eyes as they fought about that damn bike that morning that she had realized that before he had.

That was a talk that was six weeks—well, more like six_teen_ weeks—overdue. Their relationship was far from a typical one. After working together for years, one thing lead to another, and a long undercover mission led them to the same bed. He didn't know if it was their stubborn streaks, the fact that both had been burned by relationships in the past, latent issues they had both had since childhood, or something entirely different altogether, but throughout the mission, they never once had a real talk about what they were doing together, both just assuming that the other would call it off as soon as the mission was over. And then he was shot and she told him that she loved him before running off and catching the bad guy, in a completely gender-neutral sense, of course.

And that was the last time either had said that word.

They continued to spend almost every night together, usually at Tony's apartment due to its proximity to both the Navy Yard and Ft. Bolling, where she was still teaching a course on international intelligence gathering at the National Defense Intelligence College, but there were no discussions about what direction their relationship was heading or what they would do when they were both cleared for full duty at NCIS again. "Well, the bone looks okay." The intrusion of Dr. Shin's voice interrupted DiNozzo from his musings. He turned to the captain with a hopeful expression on his face. "I'm assuming you're still working with physical therapy, and you'll have to retake your firearms proficiency, but from a medical standpoint, I see no problems with you returning to full duty." She signed the form DiNozzo offered with a quick squiggle that bore no resemblance to 'Emily Shin'. "Is there anything else?"

"Actually, yes." It was Ziva who had spoken those words. "My follow-up is scheduled for Thursday, but I would really like to get this cast off." Shin chuckled as she pulled up another x-ray on the computer, nodding slightly at the image.

"The film looks good," she said. A knowing smile crossed her face. "And I'm guessing you've already started walking on it?" The look on Ziva's face pretty much confirmed that. "How does it feel?"

"Fine," Ziva said quickly. DiNozzo snorted.

"She swallows Motrin like candy," he informed the doctor. Ziva glared at him.

"That is not entirely for the ankle," she snapped.

"Well, you can take off the cast, but take it easy for a couple more weeks," Shin interjected, obviously wanting no part in their argument. "No running for at least two weeks, and don't push yourself too hard. If it hurts, stop. It'll hurt a lot more if you refracture it." She typed a quick note in AHLTA, the DoD's electronic medical record system, before logging off. "And I'm planning on going out for another ride on Saturday, if you want to join me." The two had biked together on a few occasions over the last six weeks.

"You have my number," Ziva replied with a nod. As if on cue, her phone began ringing. She frowned as she pulled it out and studied the number on the display. "David," she snapped as she answered. The frown deepened before she began firing back in Hebrew. Shin looked on with eyebrows raised.

"She does that," DiNozzo informed the doctor. She quickly gave DiNozzo a few more instructions before ducking out of the examining room.

Ziva was done talking about two minutes later, snapping her phone closed with a resolute air, her eyes not focused on any one object. DiNozzo knew that look well. "Something you want to talk about?" he asked gently.

She turned to face him and shook her head quickly. "It is nothing," she said stiffly. He raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything. He didn't have to; his expression said enough. She sighed. "I am to return to Israel," she finally admitted.

The eyebrows rose even higher. "And you weren't going to tell me?"

"I would have. Eventually," she replied defensively. He snorted.

"When? Sometime before or after I woke up to find you not there?" It still surprised him how quickly he had gotten accustomed to her presence in his apartment, his life. Deciding he didn't want to start a fight in the orthopedic clinic at Bethesda, he softened his tone. "Work?"

She shook her head. "No," she replied stiffly, reaching for her purse and heading for the door. His arm stopped her.

"Then what?"

Their eyes locked for a minute, neither of them speaking. "My father," she finally replied, her voice low. "He is in the hospital."

A thousand possibilities ran through his mind, ranging from assassination attempts on the director of Mossad to Hamas bombings. "Is he okay?"

A haunted look that he had never seen from her filled her eyes. "No," she said, her voice soft. "He is not okay, Tony. He is dying."


	3. Chapter 3

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 3**

* * *

Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs studied his partially-completed boat as he leaned against his workbench, bringing a mug containing an odd mixture of coffee and bourbon to his lips. In the silence of the basement—without cable or satellite, his TV became a useless box at the nation-wide digital television conversion—he heard the front door opening, followed shortly by the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. "I guess the cast came off," he remarked dryly. Over the last six weeks, he had almost gotten accustomed to the uneven thumping sound of Ziva David coming down the stairs wearing one shoe and one fracture boot.

"Just this afternoon," the Mossad liaison replied.

"It wasn't supposed to be until Thursday," Agent DiNozzo added, sounding annoyed. He grabbed an empty Mason jar from Gibbs' bench and poured bourbon into it without asking. That alone was enough to tell Gibbs he wasn't going to like what his agents had to say.

He could probably count on one hand—maybe two, but he doubted it—the number of times either agent had been in his basement prior to their undercover mission ending six weeks ago. Since then, however, having one or both come down had become a frequent occurrence. If it was Ziva alone, he could count on having to hear complaints about something DiNozzo had done or said that day, which usually prompted him to ask—often in an exasperated tone—if the two of them had talked about what the deal was with their relationship. She would usually change the subject and quickly find a reason to leave. When both came down together, he could usually assume they were having a good day, and could count on being filled in on the office scuttlebutt that he didn't care about in the first place. He doubted that was the case that night. "So what's going on?" he asked with a sigh, wondering if this was going to cost him even more time with the two semi-competent agents Vance had given him to temporarily replace DiNozzo and David.

"I am going back to Israel," Ziva informed him.

"We," DiNozzo corrected. "_We_ are going to Israel."

"Yes," the Mossad liaison replied, a touch of annoyance in her voice. "_We_ are going to Israel. Officer Bashan at the embassy is making travel arrangements for Thursday. I have already informed my co-instructors at the NDIC that I will not be able to finish the course."

"Strange time for a vacation." He knew it wasn't a vacation, of course—he doubted the Mossad officer stationed at the Israeli embassy would be booking flights for their rest and recreation, and not even DiNozzo would be thoughtless enough to wait until he got his official medical clearance to return to field duty to take a break.

"Not my first choice of one, either, Boss," DiNozzo replied, still sounding sour. He stared at Ziva pointedly, clearly waiting for her to explain.

"My father is in the hospital," she finally said. Gibbs gave no outward reaction to that news as he selected a tool from his workbench and got to work. Just as he suspected she would do, Ziva filled the silence that his lack of a response provided. "Oh, it must be serious," she said, adopting a deeper and slightly biting tone that was supposed to be an imitation of Gibbs' before returning to her normal tone. "Actually, Gibbs, it is. He collapsed during a meeting with the Prime Minister." Back to Gibbs' voice: "I am surprised I had not heard about this on ZNN."

"As if the director of Mossad would have allowed that to appear on the news." DiNozzo's voice when he interrupted her single-person dialogue still sounded annoyed, and Gibbs wondered how much of that was a result of the bourbon he had quickly downed and how much he had come with. He figured there was something behind the way his senior field agent was acting, but didn't want to ask. Like he told both of them six weeks before, the last thing he wanted was to get involved in their personal lives. It was true that they kept it out of the office—not too difficult, as Ziva hadn't been working at the office in that time—but he still had heard more than he would have liked during those sessions in the basement. DiNozzo poured himself more alcohol, ignoring the Mossad liaison's glare.

"He has kept the news of his hospitalization from the media," Ziva finally said, turning again to Gibbs. "One of his deputies is acting in his absence."

"How long?"

Misinterpreting the question, the Israeli replied, "This happened in the afternoon in Israel, which was this morning here. I was notified while we were at Bethesda."

He shook his head slightly; that wasn't what he was asking. He didn't know what the relationship was between his Mossad liaison and her father, but knew she wouldn't be dropping everything in order to fly home—and take DiNozzo with her—if this was just a case of Director David fainting during a meeting. He figured that the man was dying, and his next question clarified that point. "How long does he have to live?"

DiNozzo's head snapped up at the question, but Ziva looked as if she had been expecting it. "They do not know," she finally said. "He has Adult Polyglucosan Body Disease. It is very rare, and nobody has lived longer than two years after the diagnosis. There is only one physician in the world who is treating it, and he was not optimistic."

"You knew what this was?" Both Gibbs and Ziva turned to see the hurt and astonished expression on DiNozzo's face. "I asked you didn't say anything... why didn't you tell me?"

"It would not have made a difference," she said, seeming confused by the question. "You are not familiar with the disorder and could not offer anything that would help. And I did not feel like explaining it twice, to both you and Gibbs."

DiNozzo didn't appear mollified by the response, but he didn't say anything further. Gibbs took over. "How much more time with your temporary replacements is this going to cost me?" He was beginning to get tired of the way new agents seemed to rotate through his team, but at least Vance hadn't tried sticking him with a CID agent this time. It was too bad Gracy had been sent to Hawaii, though; she was at least beginning to pick up on how to do the job by the end of her three-month stint while she was filling in for McGee.

"I do not know," Ziva admitted. It seemed like there was a lot she didn't know these days. "It is not something I could discuss with my father's aide over the phone."

He didn't like not knowing how long half of his team would be absent, but knew it would be pointless to complain to them about it; it wasn't as if Ziva had intentionally made her father sick to get time off, and knowing how DiNozzo felt about the Mossad liaison—even if the senior field agent usually didn't seem to know it himself—he figured it would be equally pointless to try to forbid him from accompanying her. "I suppose you both have enough leave built up to cover it."

DiNozzo snorted. "That has something to do with not taking a vacation in five years." Neither mentioned Ziva's unexpected week-long trip to Israel the previous fall.

As she did before, Ziva ignored DiNozzo's comments. "I will assess the situation and give you SitRep after we arrive," she promised. Gibbs nodded; trust the Mossad officer to make checking up on her sick and possibly dying father sound like a military reconnaissance mission. "I will come by NCIS tomorrow after my last lecture to fill out the required paperwork. I will leave the length of time blank, for you to fill in later."

He nodded again at that, even though they all knew that he would never get around to doing it; he viewed the massive amounts of paperwork that NCIS generated as a pointless nuisance. "Sounds like you have everything figured out."

She returned the nod, knowing that that was tantamount to a dismissal. "Well, guess we'll be seeing you tomorrow, Boss," DiNozzo replied for her, returning his again-emptied Mason jar to Gibbs' bench as he rose from his stool. Ziva, having been closer to the stairs, blocked him, her eyes narrowed into a glare and her hand extended with the palm up. "There is no way I'm letting you drive my car," DiNozzo stated, knowing what she was asking for.

"You are not fit to drive, Tony," she replied evenly. "Do not make me hurt you to keep you from driving." The two stood in a silent glaring match for almost a minute before DiNozzo reluctantly handed over the keys to his beloved Mustang. There was no triumphant expression on her face at having won the argument; there was really no expression on her face at all. That worried Gibbs more than anything she had said that evening.

He waited until she was outside the basement door before stopping his senior field agent. "DiNozzo," he called out. Tony turned and faced his boss, waiting. Gibbs didn't really know how to give this advice, considering how lousy he was at following it, but felt like something had to be said. "Don't push her," he finally settled with. He didn't know if DiNozzo caught his meaning or not, but the expression on the younger man's face didn't change as he nodded and resumed his ascent up the stairs.

---

The drive from Gibbs' house to DiNozzo's apartment was a silent one, a concept Tony DiNozzo was far from comfortable with. As much as he loved to fill the quiet with talking, though, his instincts for self-preservation took precedence over his desire to speak. Ziva David was clearly pissed off, probably at him, but taking it out on his Mustang, and he flinched every time he heard the grinding of the gears as she shifted. When she finally slammed on the breaks after squealing into a parking place at his building, he offered a silent prayer of thanks to any deity that would listen that both he and his car survived Ziva's driving. Considering his status as a lapsed Catholic—if people who had no memory of going to Mass could be considered Catholics of any sort, even lapsed—who recently pretended to be considering converting to Judaism for an undercover mission, he doubted there were many deities lined up to hear his prayers.

The silence continued as they ascended the stairs to the apartment, and then as soon as the door closed behind them, they both opened their mouths to speak at once. "Ziva, I—," he began to apologize, but stopped when she also began to talk. "You first," he finished lamely.

"I think I should sleep in my own apartment tonight," she said, not meeting his eye. He blinked in surprise at the words.

"Oh," he finally replied.

She looked like she might reconsider for a brief second, but then hesitantly asked, "Could you help me with my bike?"

Again, they were silent as he grabbed the bicycle and she carried the bike rack down to the parking lot, where Ziva's Mini was waiting. She finally turned to face him after they ensured that the bike was secure. "I am not mad at you, Tony," she told him, her voice soft. "I just need some time to think tonight."

He found himself nodding despite the conflicting thoughts and emotions swirling around his head. He wanted to tell her that she could do all the thinking she wanted at his place, to apologize for the way he had been acting all day—well, all _week_, really—to ask her to stay. Gibbs' words as he left the older man's house were still ringing in his ears as he heard himself ask, "I'll see you at the office tomorrow afternoon?"

She nodded. "When I come to fill out the paperwork." She hesitated for a second, then rose to her toes to kiss him lightly. "Goodnight, Tony."

"'Night, Ziva." He remained rooted in place, watching her car pull away until the taillights were out of view.

He didn't know what he would have done if she hadn't given him that kiss before leaving, and that thought scared him more than any bike ever could.


	4. Chapter 4

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 4**

* * *

Special Agent Tony DiNozzo thanked his former partner at Baltimore PD before hanging up the phone. He jotted a quick note to himself in the open case file on his desk and sighed; he hated working cold cases and hated the fact that that's what he was currently doing. There had been some heated arguments at NCIS about where to put him after he had gotten shot. When McGee had broken his leg during an impromptu ski trip, there was no question about where he would be spending his time during his convalescence; the Cyber Crimes unit wasted no time clearing a station for him. DiNozzo, on the other hand, had no training outside of police work. Gibbs wanted to keep him at his desk to do background checks and similar non-field tasks for the team, but Vance wanted to keep DiNozzo's position available for someone who was medically cleared to do everything in his job description, and wanted the senior field agent moved to the other side of the divider. Despite Gibbs' best efforts, Vance successfully pulled rank, and DiNozzo found himself working cold cases and tracking down shoplifters and seamen who jumped ship as part of the Minor Crimes Relaxation Team. He had to stop calling it by that nickname, a play off the Major Crimes Response Team on DiNozzo's usual side of the divider, after Agent Arnold threatened to have him sent to the Northwest Subordinate Field Office on Whidbey Island in Washington State, barely south of the Canadian border. DiNozzo doubted that Arnold had the authority to do that, but wasn't willing to risk it. It wasn't that he had anything against open spaces or the Pacific Ocean—or Canadians—but the last thing he wanted for his career was to be spending his days informing sailors on leave that Canada was a foreign country and they can't just cross the border without prior authorization.

He idly flipped through the folder for a minute before deciding that trying to get anything done when he was distracted by his upcoming trip to Israel was fairly pointless. Thinking about Ziva's comment the night before, about how he was no help because he didn't know anything about the disease that Director David was suffering from, he resolutely pushed aside the folder and headed for the elevators.

At first glance, Autopsy was completely empty. "Ducky?" he called out questioning, wondering if he had somehow missed Gibbs and the MCRT getting a call about a dead body in Rock Creek Park or the Bethesda Metro station or someplace similarly innocuous-seeming. A second later, though, the Scottish medical examiner's head popped out from a side storage room.

"Ah, Tony," he greeted as he fully stepped into Autopsy. "Something I can do for you? A glance at another autopsy report from a cold case, perhaps?"

"Actually, not this time, Ducky," DiNozzo replied. "I'm hoping to get some information from you, but not regarding a case."

"Well, certainly," Dr. Donald Mallard replied, not seeming surprised by the request. "I am glad to provide assistance any way I can. It is not often that I get the opportunity to help with a patient who is not yet deceased."

"Yeah," DiNozzo said, frowning slightly. Why was it that he could never get a simple 'yes' or 'no' out of anybody? "I was wondering if you know anything about Adult Polyglucosan Body Disease."

"Hmm," Ducky murmured thoughtfully. "I can't say that it sounds familiar, I'm afraid."

"What doesn't sound familiar, Doctor?" DiNozzo winced slightly at Jimmy Palmer's ever-cheerful voice. He had nothing against the younger man; in fact, he had been one of his closest advisors during the summer he was leading the MCRT while Gibbs was on his extended Mexican vacation, as he was one of the few people who knew about the whole situation without being directly involved in it. Still, the medical examiner's assistant had a very bad tendency to not know when to keep his mouth shut. If Michelle Lee had been looking for someone to seduce for information on the inner workings of NCIS, she couldn't have possibly chosen a better target. DiNozzo couldn't imagine the things that could have come up during their pillow talk. Actually, he could imagine it, and shuddered subtly.

"Adult Polyglucosan Body Disease," Dr. Mallard repeated for the sake of his assistant. "Perhaps you have heard of it, as you are much closer to a medical school education than I. Back when I was studying to receive my degree at Edinburg, we—"

"I think I've heard of it," Palmer interrupted. He gave DiNozzo a quick wink before his previous innocent expression returned to his face. The field agent had to fight to keep from grinning; doing things like that—saving him from Ducky's long and often nonsensical stories—were what made Palmer a great person to keep around, even if he didn't know how to keep his mouth shut. "I think it might have been in one of my genetics courses. Just let me get on the OMIM site and check it out."

"The what?" DiNozzo asked.

"OMIM. Online Mendelian Inheritance in Man. It's one of the NIH's NCBI sites, along with PubMed and the Genome Project." DiNozzo just blinked, not knowing what to think of those sentences. Working for the Navy, he had a fairly good handle on a lot of acronyms, but the medical field had a language of its own. "Well, I was right," Palmer said absently as he quickly scanned the website that he had brought up. "It's caused by a mutation in the glycogen branching enzyme gene. It's autosomal recessive, although some family members with heterozygosity of the GBE gene show some effects. Symptoms—"

"Palmer," DiNozzo interrupted. "Phys ed major here. Dumb it down a bit."

"Sorry," the ME assistant replied, a slight blush spreading across his cheeks. "Uh, autosomal recessive means that each parent had a defective copy of the gene and passed it along to the offspring, so that he—or she, I guess—has two bad copies of the gene instead of two good copies like most people have—"

"Mr. Palmer," Ducky interrupted, "I think that is more detailed than Agent DiNozzo needs." He turned to Tony. "Suffice to say, my boy, that it is an inherited disorder."

"So it comes from a parent?"

"Well, from both parents, actually."

He nodded slightly and filed that under 'something to think about later'. "What are the symptoms?"

Ducky turned to Palmer, who immediately started reading from the website. "It's a late-onset, slowly progressive disorder of both the central and peripheral nervous systems, causing cognitive impairment, pyramidal tetraparesis, peripheral neuropathy—"

"Palmer!" DiNozzo exclaimed, exasperated. The younger man blushed bright red.

"I'm sorry, sir. Tony," he corrected quickly, blinking in surprise at the automatic response. "It's a neurologic disorder, almost like ALS—Lou Gehrig's Disease."

"Is it fatal?" DiNozzo asked, feeling a slight sinking in his stomach, already knowing the answer. He had been working with Ziva for four years and sleeping with her for four months—he knew when she was being dramatic and when she was being honest, and she had been honest when she had said that her father was dying. Both Palmer and Ducky nodded in response to the question.

"In every instance," Ducky informed him. Seeing the look on Tony's face, he quickly added, "But that is fewer than fifty cases, and with such a small sample size, it is impossible to gather the statistical support to make such blanket statements. I remember a time as a regimental medical officer when we had what we thought was an outbreak of cutaneous anthrax amongst the troops…" He continued to ramble on as Palmer resumed his perusal of the website. DiNozzo felt himself begin to drift off when he felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket. He pulled it out and frowned at the display.

"Hey, Boss," he greeted with a lightness he didn't feel.

_"Get to the range,"_ Special Agent Gibbs ordered without preamble. _"Firearms proficiency. My senior field agent is not going to Israel without permission to carry."_

DiNozzo blinked at the words. "I'm not going to Israel as an NCIS agent, Boss," he replied before he realized he was speaking to a dial tone. "I'll get right on that, Boss," he muttered sarcastically, snapping his phone closed as he headed for the doors out of Autopsy without a word to Ducky or Palmer. Neither seemed to notice his departure.

"I wonder if The Doctor's Doctor website will have more information," Palmer mused as he typed the address to the pathology site into the computer. Ducky had concluded his story and was looking for his assistant's shoulder as they both silently read about the pathological findings of Adult Polyglucosan Body Disease. At the same time, they both reached the line about the disease's epidemiology. Ducky's eyes widened slightly at what he read, and Palmer blanched visibly. "Oh," the younger man managed. He adjusted his glasses as if that would give him a better view of the screen and change the words he saw there. He glanced over at his boss. "Do you think…?" His voice trailed off and they both turned their heads to where DiNozzo had been standing. "Where did he go?"

"I swear, that boy becomes more and more like Gibbs with every passing day," Ducky commented with a sigh. "I remember when I first met Jethro—"

"Doctor," Palmer interrupted forcefully. He pointed at the line on the screen, reminding the elderly medical examiner of what had caught their attention in the first place.

_"Disease associations: 70% of patients are of Ashkenazi Jewish descent."_


	5. Chapter 5

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 5**

_A/N: As always, thank you for all the reviews, and please, keep them coming. Along those lines, many of you have had questions regarding the last sentence of the last chapter. Let me clarify that: it meant that of all the patients with APBD (all 50 or so of them in the world), 70% are of Ashkenazi Jewish descent. It does NOT mean that 70% of all Jews have the defective gene. This chapter (chapter 5) is mostly a filler chapter with more about that. _

_Completely unrelated A/N: I'm now a homeowner! Unfortunately, it means that I'm going to be spending a good deal of time for the next week or so painting and picking out furniture instead of writing (sorry). If anyone wants to come to Maryland and paint for me, though... j/k. I'll keep posting when I can._

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Abby Sciuto danced a few steps in her ridiculously-tall platform boots as she turned from her microscope to check her samples in the gas chromatograph. She almost jumped in surprise at the sight of Jimmy Palmer standing just inside her lab door, looking as if someone had just ran over his pet dog—or, as had been her case when she was nine and staying with her grandparents outside of Baton Rouge for the summer, her favorite frog. Seymour had been such a good pet, and a lot more fun than any dog could have been in her nine-year-old eyes, but then her cousin had gotten behind the wheel of Pop's pickup… "Palmer!" she exclaimed after reminding herself of why she was surprised. "What are you doing here?"

He still had that distracted/sick look on his face as he took a halting step further into the lab. She frowned, concerned; she had never seen him look like this, not even after Gibbs had shot Michelle Lee. Sure, the two of them had stopped sleeping together by that point, but it would have to be a _really_ bad break-up to feel nothing after a former lover died. She could only imagine how devastated she would be if anything happened to McGee. Unless, of course, McGee turned out to be a double agent who was selling state secrets and lying to everyone who knew and cared about him for almost a year. She supposed she'd be slightly less devastated if that were the case.

She pushed that random line of thinking out of her head rather forcefully as she rushed forward and helped the ME's assistant into one of her tall and rarely used lab stools. "Do you need anything?" she asked, her words coming out in a rush in her concern. "A soda? Caf-Pow?" Noticing the ill expression on his face, she continued, "A bucket to puke in? Because if you vomit on my counters and contaminate the evidence, then Gibbs will get mad at me and I'll fold under the pressure of his glare and tell him that it was your fault and then he'll probably kill you." Her eyes went wide at what she had involuntarily said, and her next words came out even faster than usual. "Well, he won't _actually_ kill you, of course, but—"

"Abby," he finally interrupted. He had that lost puppy dog look on his face that he pulled off better than anyone else she knew. "Would you mind turning the music down?"

"Of course," she said quickly, walking the few steps over to the remote and turning the volume of her favorite Brain Matter CD down to a barely-audible level before rushing back to Palmer. "What's going on? Is everything okay?" Her eyes widened even further and she took a step back as if physically struck. "Oh, my God! Something's happened to Ducky, hasn't it? Is he okay? Did they take him to the hospital? Which one? I'll drive." So caught up in her panicked assumptions, she made her way toward her office to get her keys and didn't even notice that Palmer hadn't been able to get a word in edgewise.

"Abby!" he finally exclaimed, stopping her in her tracks halfway to the office. "Dr. Mallard is fine. He's downstairs in Autopsy."

"Thank God!" she exclaimed in relief. She frowned when she realized she still didn't know what was going on with Palmer and gave him a glare. "Then what is it?" she demanded.

The sick look returned to his face. "I think Ziva's dying," he said, his voice so quiet it was barely audible.

She stared at him for a moment before letting out a laugh that was part relief and part mocking, and sounded slightly maniacal to her own ears. "She's not _dying_, Jimmy. It's just a broken ankle. She'll be back to work in a few weeks, just as soon as she and Tony return from Israel."

He shook his head emphatically. "I'm not talking about her ankle," he explained. He opened his mouth and then closed it again as he tried to find the words. Finally, he just blurted out the events that had just happened down in Autopsy. "Tony came down to ask Ducky about this genetic disorder, Adult Polyglucosan Body Disease. It's an autosomal recessive disorder, caused by a Tyr329Ser mutation in the glycogen-branching enzyme gene—"

"Jimmy," Abby interrupted gently. "Maybe you should get to the point."

"Sorry," he said, a sheepish expression on his face. "So, he didn't tell us why he was asking about the disease and he ended up leaving Autopsy before we could ask, but—"

"What makes you think it has anything to do with Ziva?" Abby interrupted again, impatient for him to get to the point. The slightly-green, sickly expression came back.

"Because Adult Polyglucosan Body Disease is really, really rare—fewer than fifty people in the world have had it, and all have died from it, so he probably wasn't asking for anything having to do with a case he was working on, so I figured it was a personal question, and then I did some more reading on the disease and we learned in our classes about some genetic disorders that are more common in certain populations than others, and—"

"Jimmy." He flushed at the interruption and the realization that he had been rambling again.

"Most of the people who have been diagnosed with the disease are Ashkenazi Jews," he finally finished, his words coming out in a rush. It took Abby a minute, and then she was able to make the connection between the way Palmer was acting and DiNozzo's questions. She shook her head emphatically and backed away from Jimmy as if he were the one who had caused this, again feeling as if she had been struck.

"No," she said, still shaking her head. "No, it just can't be true. Ziva's far too… too… too ninja-like to die of some random genetic disorder. She's like, stronger than bullets and able to take on entire platoons of Marines single-handedly and has put up with Tony for all this time—well, they've only been sleeping together for a few months, but they've been working together as partners for _years_. But that's not really the point. Ziva's been shot and stabbed and had her ankle broken and there's _no way_ that a Tyr329Ser mutation on chromosome three is going to be the end of her."

"I know," Palmer agreed gloomily.

"I wonder how long she's known," Abby continued as if she hadn't heard him. "Assuming she does know. Wait. Of course she knows. Otherwise Tony wouldn't have known. I mean, he's a smart guy about some stuff like chasing down bad guys and knowing how to keep Ziva from killing him when he's acting like an idiot, but there's no way that he'd be able to diagnose some rare genetic disease on his own, which means someone had to have told him and they wouldn't have told Tony unless they've told Ziva. Oh!"

"What?"

As if again realizing that he was there, she turned to Palmer with an expression of sad realization on her face. "_That's_ why they're going to Israel. I wondered about that, why they would leave for vacation right when Tony gets his medical clearance to return to Team Gibbs and Ziva still has two weeks left of that class she's teaching, but now it makes so much sense."

"What makes sense?" Palmer asked, not quite following Abby's rapid words.

"Why they're going to Israel right now," she told him, somewhat impatiently. "So she could go home to die."

He frowned; Abby didn't sound all that upset by those words. In fact, she sounded… determined. "Why doesn't that bother you?" he asked tentatively.

"Because, Jimmy," she said, that determination out in full force. "_We're_ not going to let that happen. Show me those websites you were reading earlier. We're going to find her a cure."


	6. Chapter 6

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 6**

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Mossad Officer Ziva David paused for a fraction of a second after the elevator doors at NCIS slid open before squaring her shoulders and stepping out of the small box. It had been a while since she had been in the building and she almost headed for her desk without thinking, before remembering that she wasn't currently working there and that it wasn't currently her desk. She changed her route before she could actually turn to the right and walked straight ahead, toward Tony's temporary desk on the opposite side of the divider from Gibbs.

As if knowing she was there, he glanced up from his phone conversation at her approach before she had the opportunity to make her presence known. The first expression on his face, the one that lasted less than a second, was the same involuntary expression he always had when he looked up to see her there. He had been giving her that look for years, but it wasn't until four months before, when they had started—sleeping together? Dating? When they had become lovers? She still didn't know how to define it—that she realized it. She still didn't know fully what that expression was, but now that she knew it was there, she always looked for it, and it never failed to bring a small smile to her face.

The phone still at his ear, he gestured her closer. Thrown off by the phone, she completely missed the mischievous look in his eyes, and she leaned forward over his desk. When she was halfway there, he grabbed the front of her shirt and pulled her the rest of the way in and gave her a quick kiss. "Hi," he said with a wide grin as he abandoned the phone. She barely resisted the urge to glance around to make sure that nobody had seen the gesture, but kept her eyes locked on his. She knew him well enough to know that, for as much as he had advertised his faceless conquests in the past, he actually preferred to keep his personal life to himself. Instead, she gave him a look of mock exasperation that didn't manage to hide her smile. It was nice to see him in his usual playful mood after the last few days.

"You two done playing grab ass over there yet?" Gibbs' voice was heard floating above the divider.

"My hands are nowhere near her ass, Boss," DiNozzo replied without missing a beat, grinning roguishly at Ziva. She rolled her eyes slightly and subtlety stepped away from the desk to put a respectable distance between them.

Gibbs appeared from around the corner and watched his agents for several long seconds before saying anything. "Everything squared away at personnel?" he finally asked. Both nodded dutifully.

"Even did my firearms proficiency. Passed with flying colors," DiNozzo informed him as he pulled the top desk drawer open to reveal his Sig.

"Might as well clear that desk out," Gibbs commented. "When you get back, you'll be over there." He gestured vaguely in the direction of DiNozzo's usual desk. Ziva saw him brighten at the words; she knew how much he missed his job, even with all the abuse he got from his boss—and sometimes from his fellow agents. She had been listening to him tell stories about the happenings of the MCRT for the last six weeks, and knew that as amusing as it must have been to watch McGee try to be the senior field agent in that time—he was a good agent, and would someday make a good senior field agent, but certainly not for Gibbs—he was looking forward to getting back on the horse.

She frowned slightly as she wondered if that were the proper expression—somehow, it didn't seem quite right—but had no time to dwell on that before the elevator doors opened again. "Ziva!" She turned at the excited/aghast tone in the forensic scientist's voice to see Abby rushing toward her as fast as she could with those ridiculous platform boots on. She barely had enough time to brace herself before she found herself the victim of a sudden rib-crushing bear hug. "Why didn't you _tell_ us?" Abby wailed.

"Tell you what, Abby?" Ziva asked as she pulled away, a confused expression on her face. "I thought that you were aware that Tony and I are leaving for Israel tomorrow—"

"No, not that," Abby said impatiently. "Well, it kinda is that. In a way. What I mean is, why didn't you tell us the reason _why_ you're going to Israel?"

Ziva stiffened at the words, wondering how Abby could have possibly found out about her father's hospitalization. She scanned her memory quickly, trying to figure out what clues had been left out there. She hadn't seen or read anything in the news, but Abby seemed to have connections in places that most civilians did not. "Abby—," she began.

"No!" Abby interrupted forcefully. Ziva was surprised to see the forensic scientist's eyes filling with tears. "Don't try to give us any excuses. I thought we were your friends, and you can't even bring yourself to tell us that you're going home to die?"

"_What?_" both Ziva and Tony asked, clearly not expecting that question.

"You did a good job of hiding it," Abby continued as if they hadn't interrupted. "I mean, a _really_ good job. I'm pretty good at figuring these things out, and McGee here is a trained investigator. I'm not really surprised that you got it past Sopko and Tomblin—"

"Hey!" the voices of the two temporary field agents protested.

"No offense, guys. You guys are pretty good for temp agents, but Tony and Ziva are in, like, a completely different playing field." Ziva had to smile slightly as she imagined the hurt expressions on the two women's faces. "But they aren't as good as they think they are," Abby continued without so much as a breath. "After all, they thought they were hiding the fact that they were sleeping together during the Grossman mission, but I called that as soon as Ziva moved into that condo the embassy got her."

"Abby, we weren't sleeping together at that point," DiNozzo interjected with his usual light manner.

"Well, maybe not," Abby admitted, "but we could all see it coming. It was inevitable." Ziva managed to school her features to give no reaction to that word, but saw Tony's face tighten slightly. Why was it that every time she heard someone say 'inevitable', she found herself wondering about the state of her relationship with Tony; was it really nothing more than a superficial sexual attraction that even the most casual observer could have noticed? "But Gibbs." Abby turned her attention to the supervisory agent and adopted a stern expression. "You knew, didn't you? Why didn't you tell us?"

"Abs," he said gently. "I think you're jumping to conclusions."

"But I'm not!" she all but wailed, the tears in her light eyes threatening to fall over her cheeks. "Palmer and I were able to put it together. When Tony came down into Autopsy to ask about Adult Polyglucosan Body Disease—"

"You told _Jimmy_?" Ziva interrupted, her voice incredulous. Of all the people at NCIS, Palmer was probably the least able to keep a secret. Even Abby would have been a better choice for a confidant.

"No!" he protested. "I went down to Autopsy to ask Ducky if he knew anything about APBD. I didn't realize Palmer was there." He shot a quick glare in Abby's direction. "And the Autopsy Gremlin must have gone squealing to our Mistress of the Dark."

"And then we figured out why Tony was asking," Abby concluded. "Jimmy found out that APBD is more common in Ashkenazi Jews, and we figured out that the only reason Tony could asking about a rare genetic disease that is more common in the Jewish population is if you had it," she explained to Ziva. She again wrapped her arms around the Israeli before she could protest. "But why didn't _you_ tell us?"

"Abby," Ziva said, gently pulling the other woman off her. "I am—"

"It's okay," Abby said quickly. "I forgive you for not telling me. I can't even imagine how it would be find out that you have a fatal neurologic disease with no known cure and only about a year to live, but—"

"Abby—," Ziva tried again.

"But we found a treatment!" Abby continued. "It's not a cure, but it's something, and it might buy some time before someone is able to come up with a cure. There's a doctor in Austria who is using this experimental combination gene therapy and chemotherapy—"

"Abby—." This time it was DiNozzo who tried to get a word in edgewise, but Abby would have nothing of it.

"We looked really_, really_ hard to find this," she continued. "I mean, we were searching for _hours_. There is not much online about the disease, probably because there have been so few people who have had it—"

"Abs," Gibbs interrupted. This time, she stopped talking. "Ziva's not dying."

"You can't say that, Gibbs. We've done a lot of research on this disease this afternoon, and—"

"I am not dying, Abby," Ziva said forcefully, gripping Abby by the elbows and looking her straight in the eye so she could see that she was serious. She had done the same thing with Jen Shepard years ago when tracking down terrorists in Eastern Europe had found it be particularly effective. She didn't dwell on the fact that then, she had been using it to convince her then-partner she was telling the truth when she was, in fact, lying. This time, she really was telling the truth. "I am not even sick. You and Jimmy did not correctly interpret Tony's questions. It is not because of concerns for my health that he was asking those questions of Ducky."

"Then why?" Abby asked, her voice much quieter now. Ziva hesitated.

"It is because of my father," she finally replied. "He is the one who has APBD. That is why we are going to Israel." She waited until she could see the realization dawning in Abby's green eyes. "He was diagnosed last year and recently had a relapse. And he is already seeing Dr. Nurick in Vienna."

The two stared at each other for a moment before Abby again wrapped her arms around Ziva. "Oh, Ziva, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I thought you were lying to me, too."

"It is okay, Abby." It wasn't until Ziva began to pull away a few minutes later that Abby released her grip. "It is time for us to go now," Ziva said, glancing down at DiNozzo. He nodded and rose to leave.

"Bye, Tony. Bye, Ziva," Abby managed, fighting back tears as she gave each another hug. "Be careful out there, okay?"

"We will, Abs," Tony promised. And then it was a handshake to Gibbs, a called-out confirmation to McGee that he would pick them to drive them to the airport the next morning, and they were headed for the elevator. On the way, their fingertips brushed, and Tony grasped Ziva's hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. He smiled at her and pulled her in slightly to gently kiss her temple as they walked, and for once, neither cared who at the office could see them.


	7. Chapter 7

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 7**

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_

Tony DiNozzo ignored the aching of his still-healing arm as he tossed his green sea bag over his shoulder and headed toward the familiar Silver Spring apartment building. He paused just before entering the building and glanced behind him. There was nothing spectacular about the neighborhood; in fact, it was a bit run down, too far away from the Navy Yard, and with only a lower monthly rent payment as a redeeming factor. He could understand why Ziva would have gotten an apartment here when she first moved to DC four years ago and didn't know any better; he couldn't understand why she had moved _back_ after her brief reassignment to the Middle East the summer before. _As soon as we get back from Israel, I'm going to convince her to move in with me_. The sudden thought surprised even him, and he couldn't get it out of his mind as he entered the building and headed for the stairs, wondering for the thousandth time why Ziva couldn't have selected a building with an elevator.

Ziva was already in the kitchen working on dinner when he let himself in, her speed in getting home a combination of her driving and the fact that she didn't have any luggage that had to be hauled in from the trunk of her car and up the stairs to the third floor apartment. He stepped around her bike in the narrow entryway and deposited the shapeless green duffle in the bedroom before joining her at the counter. "Hi," he finally said, stealing her attention for a few seconds to kiss her. She let it linger longer than usual, and that combined with the expression on her face told him that something was bothering her. Well, something more than everything else that had been going on the last couple of days. Deciding that alcohol was needed for that conversation, he headed over to the wine rack and surveyed the choices. "What's for dinner?"

"_Sugo alla puttanesca_," she replied in perfectly accented Italian. Not for the first time, he thought about how well she would do with the extended DiNozzo family; she spoke Italian better than he did. He nodded and grabbed a bottle of red, turning it toward her to allow her to approve it. She appeared to think about it for a moment before shaking her head. "I think the Vesuvio Rosso would be a better choice," she told him. He nodded and made the change, pouring generous servings in two wineglasses and handing one over. She took a sip and nodded her satisfaction before setting it aside to finish the sauce.

They made pointless small talk—mostly planning what they should see in Tel Aviv, as if this were a routine vacation—while they ate their dinner. It wasn't until the table had been cleared and the dishwasher running, the time that Tony usually turned on the TV and Ziva reached for her latest book, that he figured it was time to clear the air. First, of course, he made sure her wineglass was topped off. Not as if it would make any difference; the woman was amazingly tolerant to alcohol. He wondered if that was something they taught in Mossad training. He smiled slightly at the mental image of a bunch of rookie operatives sitting around with shot glasses playing 'Never Have I Ever'. Or, in a more deadly and probably more Mossad-like fashion, old-fashioned pistol duels. Whoever held their liquor well enough to draw quickly and fire accurately lived to make it to the next level of training. He allowed himself one chuckle before leaving the kitchen, handing Ziva her glass before joining her on the couch.

He had barely opened his mouth to speak when she beat him to it. "You do not have to go with me to Israel."

He blinked in surprise, trying to figure out what her words could possibly mean. She was looking at him with an expression he couldn't quite figure out, her dark eyes avoiding his. As always, he chose to cover up the sudden pang of hurt and uncertainty with a flippant response. "Well, it's a bit late for that. Bashan already booked the tickets, and all the paperwork is in at NCIS. Looks like you're stuck with me." She winced at the words, and he knew instantly that he wasn't going to be able to joke himself out of this one. "Do you want me to not go?" he asked quietly.

"I did not say that," she replied quickly. He frowned, trying to bring up his mental Ziva translating guide. He gave it another shot.

"Is it that you'd rather go alone? Because I would understand that, if that's how you felt. He's your father—"

"I did not say that," she interrupted. He frowned.

"Stop telling me what you're not saying and just tell me what you are saying!" he exclaimed, frustrated. She blinked, surprised at his tone, but quickly recovered.

"I do not want you to feel as if you have to drop everything to fly halfway across the world just because we are having sex," she stated.

He frowned at the wording, and that pang of uncertainty was back. Was that really what she thought this was? "That's not why I wanted to go with you," he said softly. She was still avoiding looking at him, so he moved right into her line of sight. "Is that what you think? That this is just about the sex? Is that what it is for you?"

"No!" she denied quickly, shaking her head to add emphasis. "And I did not think that was how you felt, either, but then you went into the deep end about this whole bike thing—"

"Went _off_ the deep end," he interrupted without thinking. She opened her mouth before closing it again, her forehead furrowing slightly as she tried to figure that out.

"How does one go off a deep end?"

He frowned as well. "I actually don't know," he admitted. "I guess I never thought about it." He paused and tried to remember where they were in their discussion. _Ah. The bikes_. That meant they were returning to the same argument they had been having since the damned bikes made their first appearance, and that realization made him hate biking even more. If it weren't for the fact that they had been fighting about a pair of bicycles, she wouldn't have doubted his sincerity when he offered to go along for support while visiting her father for what could be the last time, and they wouldn't currently be sitting on her living room couch talking about it. No, they would probably be in the bedroom, doing something a hell of a lot more enjoyable. "Ziva," he finally said, trying to shut off that line of thinking before it got out of hand, "I hate biking."

She looked confused at the words. "You never said anything."

He threw his hands in the air. "I've been saying it for almost six weeks, since we went to the Exchange to buy those cheap bikes, before you decided to turn it into a long-term investment!"

The expression on her face was an odd combination of surprise and sheepishness. "I thought you were just complaining about having to get out of bed at 0500," she admitted after a long pause.

"Well, there was that," he joked. He wondered if the small smile that Ziva was trying to hide was a sign that this argument was—finally—coming to an end. "Ziva, I love spending time with you." That statement was about as far as was willing to go with that particular word, a fact he hated about himself as he saw the differing emotions play across her face as she processed his words. "Even at 0500. I would prefer spending time with you at 0500 _in bed_, but I'll take it however I can get it. I just don't like biking. I had a career-ending knee injury, remember? For some reason, biking hurts a hell of a lot more than running. That's why I've been downing so much Vitamin M over the last six weeks." She looked surprised, and he realized that with her own increase in taking Motrin, she hadn't even noticed his. They both had large bottles of the over-the-counter pain medicine in their apartments, which were being emptied at amazing rates. He figured they were both only one or two doses away from giving themselves ulcers. Maybe it was good they were leaving DC for a while and heading for Israel; working the stressful long hours for Gibbs and drinking the coffee that surviving that required would only tip them over that edge.

"I was worried I had overplayed my hand," she said quietly after a long pause. So distracted by the fact that she had gotten an obscure card-playing reference right, it took him a moment to catch up to the conversation.

"The bikes?" he asked dumbly. She gave a short nod before abruptly rising from the couch to begin pacing the small living room. It was another move he had grown to recognize over the last couple of months; Ziva didn't sit still well, and she couldn't have a serious conversation without doing something physical to distract her from the words. He wondered how two such screwed up people had managed to get together in the first place, and how they had managed to survive almost four months once that had happened. _By not having these conversations_, he answered sourly for himself. One would think that he had learned the importance of open and honest conversation from the last time he had gotten seriously burnt by a relationship, but as his first grade teacher had written on his report card, Anthony DiNozzo was sometimes a little slower than the other kids to pick up on new concepts.

Ziva nodded again. "I did not think that buying you a bike would upset you as much as it did, and I thought that you—"

"Well, you could have asked first," he interrupted lightly, not wanting her to finish that sentence. He wasn't sure exactly what her next words would be, but the last thing he wanted to hear the evening before taking a leave from work to fly to a foreign country to meet his girlfriend's dying father was that she had thought they were on the cusp of breaking up. And he was sure that a break-up with a trained Mossad assassin would not go as smoothly as most of his relationships ended. Closets filled with dog crap had nothing on what she could do to him.

She nodded. "I will do that before making another large purchase for you," she promised with true sincerity. He sighed. The last thing he wanted was for her to second-guess every nice impulse she had toward him. He knew that he had been an ass about the whole situation and knew that he had to be a man about it and say so.

"I'm sorry I got so worked up about this without telling you why," he apologized. He rose from his seat on the couch and stood in front of her, blocking the path she was pacing in. "Thank you for the bike. I should have said that before."

She nodded slightly. "We do not have to do everything together, Tony," she said softly, her eyes rising to meet his. "When we return from Israel, we will be spending our days together at work and many of our nights together in one of our apartments. We are allowed to have activities that we do not share. You are not an easy person to be around twenty-four/seven."

"_I'm_ not an easy person to be around twenty-four/seven?" he repeated with a grin on his face. "At least I don't sleep with a gun and threaten to use it in my sleep." She had never done that, but she didn't appear surprised at the idea that she could have. "And unless you've developed a sudden interest in Buckeye football, you'll see that in a few months I have no problem having activities we don't share."

"I do not think watching football can be considered an activity," Ziva scoffed, but he saw the beginnings of a smile on her face. This had to the be the first time they actually ended an argument by resolving something, not having one storm out of the apartment in anger or jump the other to relieve the excess tension. He was actually a bit impressed with them as a couple.

"You've never watched Buckeye football," he countered. She rolled her eyes. "So you're not mad at me about the bike anymore?"

"I was never mad at you about the bike," she replied softly. He nodded.

"Are you still mad at me?" he asked, his voice lower than it had been. He took a small step closer to her and saw her eyes dart quickly down to his lips before returning to his eyes. She shook her head slowly. "Good," he murmured, his voice even lower. He bent down, his lips lightly brushing hers before pulling away a few millimeters. "Because I don't like it when you're mad at me."

"You do not like angry sex?" she asked teasingly. They were so close that he felt the breath of her words on his lips, and leaned in again to close that gap.

"I prefer make-up sex," he replied honestly as they parted before coming together again. He felt her smile into the kiss as he led her into the bedroom. _Acting like adults definitely has his perks_, he thought with a smile of his own as he leaned back onto the bed, taking Ziva with him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 8**

_A/N: Just so you know, I'm only able to get some writing in because I ran out of paint after doing one coat on a wall that definitely needs two, and as my car is still in Columbus, currently have no way of getting to Home Depot to get some more. I really need to find a Home Depot by a Metro stop - either that, or for someone to show up at my door with a quart of Behr Winter Hedge. I really want to get this whole painting thing behind me._

_Anyway, enough whining about paint and onto whining about reviews. I'm feeling quite a lot of what McGee would claim is not writer's block, and I really don't want to get behind on posting, so any suggestions you have about where I could take the story or what to include would be appreciated (but not necessarily taken, depending on what the suggestions are). So, you help me out, I get you more chapters... It's a win/win situation, really._

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Special Agent Timothy McGee parked his car in one of the visitor's spaces in front of Ziva David's apartment building and glanced at the dashboard clock with a sigh. He was too early, a trait that wasn't a problem when it came to showing up at work, but less than desirable when arriving to pick up his friends and drive them to the airport. With the way they had been fighting lately, he was sure he was about to walk in either in the middle of an argument or in the aftermath, neither of which he was too excited about seeing.

A tap on the window almost made him jump out of the driver's seat. After recovering, he rolled down the window to see Tony leaning almost over the door, his arms resting on the roof of McGee's new Audi TT and his shirt covered in sweat. McGee guessed he was just returning from a run, and glanced behind the senior field agent in search of Ziva, who was nowhere to be found. "You're early, McAlarm Clock," DiNozzo commented. He glanced over the car. "And I miss the Porsche."

"It wasn't really that practical in DC weather, Tony," McGee answered patiently. He was getting tired of answering questions about that, and really didn't feel like explaining that the real reason was the hit his finances took at the stock market crash. He was able to sell his Boxster and replace it with a new Audi—still German engineering, but really not quite the same—and still got to take some money home. He was saving quite a bit on car insurance, too. And it really _was_a more practical car for DC. "Ziva's okay to be running already? And where is Ziva?"

"Nah, she's not running yet," DiNozzo commented casually as McGee stepped out of his car. "She went on a bike ride. She should be back soon, if she's not already."

"Oh. I thought you guys worked out together in the mornings."

"We don't do everything together, McSnoopy." McGee wondered if there was something behind the comment as he followed DiNozzo up the stairs. He also wondered why Ziva had gotten an apartment in a building without an elevator. It wasn't as if she had to worry about staying in shape.

They heard the shower running when Tony unlocked the door. "Well, that answers the question of where Ziva is," he said lightly, tossing the key onto a short table by the door. Just then, the water shut off, and McGee found himself hoping fervently that Ziva didn't make a habit of walking around the apartment with only a towel—or without one. Not that he would mind the view, usually, but he doubted she'd appreciate it, and knew from previous experiences that she kept her apartment very well-stocked in armaments. "I'm going to go hop in the shower. Make yourself at home. The coffee's fresh."

"Uh, okay," McGee said into an empty room, a bit taken aback by how casual and..._normal _DiNozzo was acting, as if today was just another day and they were just a couple of friends from the office hanging out on a Thursday morning before going to work. He wasn't even making the usual jokes he made when trying to cover up insecurities or discomfort.

It was only a few minutes later that Ziva appeared from the same direction Tony had disappeared to, fortunately fully dressed. "Good morning, McGee," she said cheerfully. "Would you like breakfast? I was going to make pancakes."

"Uh, sure," he said slowly, feeling as if he had fallen into some sort of Twilight Zone. First Tony, now Ziva... Two people he never would have expected to have normal home lives, acting completely casual and comfortable in her apartment, as if they had lived there together forever. There wasn't even a hint of the dark, underlying frustration DiNozzo had had at the office for the past several days, making McGee wonder if the two of them had finally talked about whatever it was that was bothering him. Although knowing the two of them as he did, he somehow doubted that much talking went into their conflict resolution. He quickly tried to think of something to say to distract himself from that thought. "So how long's the flight?"

"Around sixteen hours," she replied. "Actually, a bit longer, as we have a lay-off in New York."

"I think you mean _lay-over_," he corrected gently.

"Yes, you are right. A lay-over. A lay-off is when someone is fired but they do not want to admit that they are being fired, yes?"

"Something like that."

She nodded absently. "Do you like anything in your pancakes? Tony likes them with chocolate chips, but that is too sweet for me." She opened the refrigerator and studied the inside for a moment before pulling out a plastic container and making a face at its contents. "I did have blueberries, but it appears that they are no longer good. I think that maybe I have spent too much time at Tony's apartment and am no longer eating my food before it goes bad."

"However you want them would be fine," McGee said quickly. It was easier to pretend that his two partners weren't having a relationship when neither made mention of it. Talking about blueberries going bad because of time spent at the other's apartment hardly qualified.

He was frantically searching for another small talk comment when Tony re-emerged from the bedroom, a few drops of water falling to his shirt from his still-wet hair. He brightened when he saw what Ziva was making. "Oh, pancakes. With chocolate chips?"

"No," Ziva replied before tilting her head up to accept a quick kiss. McGee looked away from yet another reminder that Tony and Ziva were no longer just colleagues. Hell, they were even dressing alike—both were wearing cargo pants and dark tee-shirts, although McGee knew that either's outfit was likely selected more for its comfort for the long flight than anything having to do with matching. And he knew from experience when flying commercial airlines as a federal agent that a slightly-long tee-shirt went a long way in covering a firearm and thus preventing other passengers from freaking out. "Chocolate chip pancakes are for children. How was your run?"

"Slow. How was your ride?"

"Short. I am not as familiar with the paths around here and took the wrong one."

DiNozzo grinned. "That's what you get for taking your bike-riding habits to my apartment. Do we have any bacon?"

"In the freezer." Tony pulled out a package of meat and made a face at it.

"Do we have any _real_ bacon?"

She pulled her eyes away from the frying pan to roll them at him. "When have you ever found pork in my apartment?" she asked rhetorically. He tossed the turkey bacon back in the freezer and closed the door.

"Last week, when I had pepperoni pizza here," he replied. She just rolled her eyes again and didn't say anything, letting it drop. Tony made his way over to the table and chairs where McGee was sitting, allowing his hand to brush against the small of Ziva's back as he passed. Ziva smiled slightly at the gesture, which McGee didn't miss. Those small gestures were what had made them so believable as a couple—well, before they _were_ a couple—when they were undercover. He wondered how many of them were natural to them and how many were so practiced that they were almost natural. He supposed it didn't really make much of a difference.

The pancakes were delicious, which made McGee suspect that Tony's increase in exercising since he started sleeping with Ziva were as much to keep from gaining obscene amounts of weight from her cooking as a desire to spend more time with her. After they were done eating and cleaning up, Tony and Ziva grabbed their bags and headed down to McGee's car. "Sorry about the size of the backseat, Ziva," he apologized as she climbed behind the passenger seat and into the back. "I should have grabbed a Charger from NCIS."

"It is okay," she replied. "I like this car. Not as much as your Porsche, but this seems much more practical."

"That's what I was trying to tell Tony," he commented as they headed for Dulles. DiNozzo snorted.

"No, you were trying to give excuses when you really meant to say that you couldn't afford the Boxster any more. Why don't you just write another book? You'll make up the money you lost in the stock market in no time."

"How did you—." He cut himself off and glanced at Ziva in the rearview mirror. No surprise there. He should have figured that telling one was as good as telling the other, at least when it was at his expense. "And you forgetting what happened the last time I wrote a book? People _died_, Tony."

"Well, there is that," DiNozzo agreed. "I'm sure not every mystery writer finds his fiction come to life before his eyes. Actually, I'm sure quite a few of them would be jealous of that fact."

"Thanks, Tony," he replied sarcastically, making the senior field agent grin. McGee sighed. He would miss DiNozzo's off-the-wall sense of humor while they were gone. _It's just a short trip_, he mentally scolded himself. _They're not being permanently assigned over there_.

They managed to avoid the worst of the Beltway traffic, and as McGee pulled into the Dulles International Airport, both Tony and Ziva declined his offer to park and help them with their bags. He pulled into the passenger drop-off area and stood awkwardly as they lifted their oversized duffels from the trunk. "Well, have a safe trip," he finally said. "And Ziva... Good luck."

"Thank you, Tim," she replied with a smile, and for the first time all morning, he realized how tired she looked. He couldn't imagine what she was going through, knowing that her father was dying on the other side of the world. If either of his parents had a fatal disease... He stopped that line of thought, remembering that his relationship with his parents was far from similar to hers. But maybe that just made it all the more painful.

She hitched the black duffle bag further up her shoulder as she turned to DiNozzo. "Ready?" she asked softly.

"I'm ready when you are," he replied. He gave a quick wave to McGee, and then slipped his arm up to massage Ziva's neck as they turned and entered the airport. He stood there and watched until they had walked out of view, and couldn't help the feeling that for as complicated as things already were, they were about to get much, much more so.


	9. Chapter 9

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 9**

_A/N: Yay! The painting is done! Thanks go out to **Novi T. Foxtrot**, a fellow resident of the DC area, who pointed out that there is a Home Depot by the Metro, so I was able to get my paint and finish up. Now I just need furniture... But that is neither here nor there (well, it must be there, because it certainly isn't here...). Anyway, onto the story._

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Tony DiNozzo glanced around at his surroundings as he stepped off the jetway and into the airport. As far as puddle-jumping flights went, the one from Dulles to Kennedy wasn't too bad; he had been a bit surprised to find himself in first class, but the flight was so short that it wasn't as if they got to enjoy many perks of that, with the exception of the comfortable seats. He wanted to ask if flying first class on that flight meant they were flying first class all the way to Tel Aviv, but didn't want to jinx himself. He would just have to be pleasantly surprised if that's how it turned out. If not, well, fifteen hours crammed into a coach seat next to Ziva would still make it far from his worst flying experience to date. He was just glad Officer Bashan hadn't decided to ship him to Israel as cargo on a UPS plane. He got the impression the senior Mossad officer at the Israeli embassy didn't like him much.

"I am going to get coffee," Ziva announced, interrupting his thoughts as she nodded toward the nearby Starbucks. "Would you like some?"

"Sure," he replied. "I'll watch the bags." There were few things worse than having to stand in line at Starbucks schlepping backpacks and small roller suitcases.

"I am assuming you want your usual half-coffee, half-sugar?" she asked dryly as she removed her credit card from her bag before handing it over.

"Funny," he replied, just as dryly. He didn't understand how Gibbs and Ziva managed to mainline black coffee the way they did.

Five minutes later, she returned with the two coffees, and they set off for the international terminal. They had to wait until they finished their drinks before they could go through security again, but with a four hour layover, they weren't exactly pressed for time. It gave them an opportunity to check up on ZNN playing at a low volume on the TV's throughout the area. Missing and suspected kidnapped two-year-old in Minneapolis, a fluff story about some baking competition on Maine, an interview with some political pundit explaining why pulling out of Iraq by 2010 is a bad idea... Nothing really all that newsworthy. Certainly no mention of a hospitalized Mossad director, not that either expected there to be.

Their coffees drained and both having their fill of news for the moment, they moved to re-enter the security line into the international terminal, doing their best to keep their sidearms covered by their tee-shirts—or, in Ziva's case, her primary by her tee-shirt, her throwaway by the leg of her cargo pants, and her knife at her thigh. Tony could never figure out how she could comfortably carry all that, but knowing her as he did, he was sure she was _only _comfortable when she had that level of firepower.

They both flashed their NCIS badges and LEO paperwork at the security counter, which the TSA agent perused with a frown, but at least didn't make any comments about not having heard of their agency. He checked the papers against their passports before mumbling something incoherent under his breath and wandering off to find a supervisor. "Great," DiNozzo said to Ziva. "Which federal agency did you piss off this time?"

"There are too many to keep track," she said lightly, making him grin. For some reason, US agencies got nervous when they found out there was a Mossad officer in their midst; you would have thought it was the Cold War and she was an undercover KGB agent. Bond theme music played through his head at the thought as they waited for the TSA agents to give them the go-ahead.

"Agent DiNozzo?" the supervisor asked as he approached, Tony's credentials and passport in hand. "I'm afraid you aren't authorized to carry on this flight."

"What?" he asked, dumbfounded. That was not what he had expected, and judging by the surprised look on Ziva's face, she felt the same way. "Why not?"

"Well, sir, this authorizes you to carry a firearm on _American _commercial airlines. You're flying El Al. They have very strict rules about who they allow to be armed. Mossad officers with authorization only." His eyes traveled over to Ziva. "Officer David—"

"Dah-veed," she corrected.

He gave a nod with an apologetic expression. "You're good to go, but I'm going to have to insist that Agent DiNozzo check his sidearm."

"But I'm here with Mossad authorization!" he protested. The TSA agent shrugged.

"You may have Mossad authorization, but you don't have El Al authorization. Again, I'm going to have to ask that you check your weapon."

"There is no need," Ziva declared. "I will carry it for him." She patted her bag for emphasis. He looked dubious, which prompted her to add, "I promise not to return it to him on the other side of security, if that makes you feel better."

The older and slightly-overweight man appeared to think about that for a moment, and failing to come up with a logic argument, finally nodded his assent. Ziva gave an almost satisfied smirk as she headed toward one of the private screening areas just off security. "Wait!" the TSA agent exclaimed, startled. "Where are you going?"

"I figured that if we were going to be exchanging sidearms, we should do so out of the view of other passengers," Ziva said calmly, "unless you would like to start a panic."

"Oh," he replied. "Sure. Go ahead. Agent Johnson will supervise." He motioned toward the original young TSA agent, who looked slightly nervous at the thought of being in a semi-private area with two armed federal agents, one of whom was a Mossad officer.

Behind the curtain, DiNozzo made a big show of removing his Sig from his holster and ejecting the magazine before handing it over to Ziva, who stored the two pieces separately in her backpack. Agent Johnson, clearly not knowing the proper protocol for these things—if such a protocol existed—just nodded his approval and sent them on their way. They immediately made their way to the El Al flight lounge, where Ziva had a quick conversation in Hebrew with a well-dressed woman at the desk before guiding him to the back of the lounge, where she again pulled out his Sig, sliding the magazine back in place before returning it to its proper owner. "Didn't you promise not to give it back?" he asked teasingly.

"I had crossed my fingers," she deadpanned in reply. He was a bit surprised that someone who couldn't grasp the concept of knocking on wood or not walking under ladders knew about crossing fingers, but just grinned and slid his weapon back into his holster without comment.

True to his hope, they were again in first class, in plush, comfortable seats that reclined all the way down to beds. _Definitely better than the jump seat of a C-130_, DiNozzo thought as he settled into his chair against the window. One of the flight attendants gave him a flirty smile, which he returned with a wide grin. Ziva rolled her eyes.

It wasn't until after that same flight attendant handed them their drinks that he realized something was just a bit off. "Don't we have to check in with an air marshall or something before take-off?" he asked once he realized what it was. The flight from Dulles to New York didn't have a flight marshall, so they checked in with the senior flight attendant. She hadn't known what to do, which prompted a ten-minute discussion between her and the two pilots, which actually delayed their departure somewhat. This time, though, Ziva just shrugged and took a sip of her wine.

"On El Al flights, Mossad officers act as air marshalls," she informed him. "Although, if it is bothering you so much, you could always tell Officer Kendis that you are carrying a sidearm." She nodded toward a tall, powerfully built Israeli man in his early thirties, sitting a row and several seats away from their position. He figured by the mischievous glint in her eye that that wouldn't be the best idea.

"Do you know _everyone_in Mossad?" he asked instead. He was about to ask how many of their fellow travelers were Mossad agents, but figured he didn't want to know. Sometimes blissful ignorance was the right way to go; this way, he could believe himself to be the second - well, third, since he knew about Officer Kendis - most-armed person on the flight.

"No, not everyone," Ziva replied calmly. "I do many on assignment in America, however. And I know Officer Kendis from before that. He is my cousin."

"Ah," DiNozzo replied knowingly. "Another who went into the family business." She just shrugged and took another sip of wine. He remembered a time when such comments would have earned him a biting comeback or maybe imaginative death threat, and wondered when that had changed.

The safety instructions were, not surprisingly, in both Hebrew and English, neither of which DiNozzo paid particular attention to. He figured anyone who could jump out of a perfectly good airplane filled with sailors and Marines could probably figure out how to follow the lighted pathway to the emergency exit in the unlikely event that anyone survived a crash.

He fell asleep soon after their meal was served—already disoriented to time, he had no idea which meal that was supposed to represent—as he had already seen all of the in-flight movies the flight had to offer, even the Israeli ones. _Ziva's a bad influence on your movie watching habits_, he mocked to himself. Maybe so, but watching bad Israeli movies with Ziva sure beat watching the Food Network alone. Hell, it would beat watching Bond alone, something which he fortunately didn't have to do, as Ziva found them highly amusing, probably more amusing than they were intended to be.

When he awoke an indeterminate amount of time later, he was temporarily disoriented and tried to place where he was. He ran through the possibilities quickly in his head. It definitely wasn't his apartment, and the lack of snoring, the too flat pillow, and the too hard bed told him it wasn't Ziva's apartment. He tentatively reached an arm over, hoping that the only thing it would encounter was mattress. If he had gotten drunk last night and went home with another woman... He couldn't even bring himself to finish that thought. Death would be too light of a punishment for that.

When his arm brushed against a curtain, he was completely confused and finally opened his eyes. The muted lights and dull roar of the airplane reminded him of what was going on—he was on an El Al flight to Tel Aviv with Ziva to see her father. Once he remembered that, he frowned again and sat up, studying the empty chair/bed next to him. The last time he checked, there was a beautiful, well-armed Mossad agent sitting there.

A quick scan of his surroundings revealed her sitting in an empty chair on the other side of the plane next to the man she had identified as her cousin, Mossad Officer Kendis. She had a new glass of wine in her hand—he had no idea how long he had been sleeping, so he was completely without a reference as to how many she had had to drink while he was out—and wearing a serious expression on her face while talking to Kendis in a low tone that probably didn't extend beyond their seats. He wondered what was behind that expression as he wondered just how much Kendis knew about his uncle's medical condition. Judging from how close-lipped Ziva had been about it, he was sure it wasn't much. That prompted him to wonder what kind of story she was giving him as to their presence on that flight. If she wanted to convince the other man that it was a trip to introduce the new boyfriend to Daddy, she was sure wearing the wrong facial expressions for that. One should hope that that would be a fairly joyous occassion, as opposed to looking like she was preparing for the worst. _Although, that could apply, too_. He hadn't had much luck recently with Jewish authority figures responding well to their relationship. It probably wasn't fair to generalize based on the homicidal reactions of one mentally-instable wife of a rabbi, though.

He finally decided that the direct approach would probably be more effective than sitting there speculating, and rose to cross to the other side of the plane. "Hi," he said, falsely chipper as he interrupted their conversation. "I think the absence of snoring woke me up. How long was I out?"

"About two hours," Ziva replied after consulting the gold Rolex she wore on her left wrist. She completely ignored the comment about her snoring. "Did you need something?"

"Nope," he said with an enigmatic smile, playing her game at giving simple answers and not offering any further information. She frowned at this, but he turned to Kendis before she had the chance to say anything. "Hi," he greeted, holding out his hand. "NCIS Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo."

"Ah, the American boyfriend." He sounded incredibly amused by this, much to Ziva's obvious annoyance. "Yosef Kendis. I am Ziva's younger cousin. I was much surprised to see her on this flight, as I was not aware of her being called to business in Tel Aviv." His dark eyes went from Ziva to Tony and back, analyzing, much in the same way that Ziva often does. DiNozzo wondered if that were a family trait or Mossad training; of course, in that family, there wasn't necessarily a lot of difference. "She has assured me that it is not for business, but would not elaborate further. I am thinking, with her serious mood and the presence of the boyfriend—"

"He has a name, Yosef," Ziva interrupted, now sounding as well as looking annoyed.

He continued as if he hadn't heard her. "I am thinking, perhaps an emergent family matter? What is the American expression? A handgun wedding?"

"Shotgun," DiNozzo corrected automatically before the man's words sunk in. A sudden wave of nausea at the thought of an unintentional pregnancy washed over him, despite the fact that he knew it wasn't true and knew the reason for their trip to Tel Aviv. Still, it took him several minutes before he regained the ability to speak. Kendis' amusement grew, as did Ziva's annoyance.

"I told you, I am not pregnant," she snapped at him. She swallowed the last of her wine as if to add emphasis to that point before rising stiffly from the chair. "Come on, Tony. We should return to our seats." She stalked off before giving either man an opportunity to stop her.

DiNozzo looked back and forth between Ziva and her cousin for a minute. "It was nice to meet you," he finally said to the grinning Kendis before following Ziva back to their seats. With the exception of his everyday interactions with Ziva, he didn't have a single positive experience meeting members of the David family. That did not bode well for his pending introduction to Director Eli David.


	10. Chapter 10

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 10**

_A/N: I feel the need to apologize and explain something before I begin this chapter. First, the apology (apologies?): I hate being cliche, and this entire year, there is nothing more cliche than Michael Rivkin in a Tiva story, so I feel the need to apologize for his presence. Also, I know there is a canon explanation for his existence, and I try not to go against canon, even if it's a canon storyline that completely blows (as Rivkin's does). So, not only am I being cliche by putting him here in the first place, but I'm changing the reason why he's here._

_So now the explanation. Ziva's picture of Rivkin in her desk exists in this storyline - yes, it was before _Of Jews and Gentiles_, but this storyline doesn't diverge from canon until after that. So I felt the need to explain why it was there, and quite frankly, I like my explanation better. He is not here to drive a wedge between Tony and Ziva, nor is he here to make Ziva choose between the two. Rather, he's here to make an interesting point about the Tiva relationship. Please let me know if I failed in that portrayal in this chapter or if you didn't get the point I was trying to use him to make._

_And speaking along the lines of letting me know... I like reviews. I need to know what I'm doing well and what is so completely out there or out of character that it just has to go. So please, drop me a line and let me know how I'm doing and what you're thinking of the story so far (as well as what you'd like to see out of it). _

* * *

Ziva David wished she were anywhere but on an airplane. Normally when she was this tense, she could pull out any number of handguns that she had nearby and field-strip it and clean it, regardless of how long it had been since the last time she had done so or how recently it had been fired. It was methodical work, ordered, and required very little conscious thought on her part. It was like a meditation, and never failed to make her feel more refreshed and more prepared to take on whatever was waiting for her.

She hadn't needed to learn the hard way that pulling out a gun on a commercial flight, even on an airline rumored to have any number of armed Mossad agents traveling at any given time, was a bad idea.

So instead of cleaning her weapons, she was tearing the paper napkin the flight attendant had handed her with that last pack of trail mix or whatever it was into tiny shreds. She was aware of Tony watching the growing pile of white paper on her tray, but ignored him, remaining focused on her task of reducing the thin paper into barely-recognizable pieces. "I think it's dead," Tony finally commented. She continued to ignore him.

They were an hour away from landing in Tel Aviv, and despite her best efforts, she just couldn't fall asleep throughout the entire flight, still tense from her conversation with Yosef. She still didn't know what she was trying to accomplish by talking to him; she had forgotten sometime between the last time she had spoken to him—when she was twenty-two and at her sister's funeral—how annoying and persistent he could be. Those were fine traits in a Mossad anti-terrorism operative and interrogator, less so in a family member. Or maybe she had just hoped that he had grown up at some point in all those years. The childish way he kept bugging her about what she was doing on the flight and repeatedly asking her if 'that American boyfriend' had gotten her pregnant pretty much disproved that theory.

"Is someone meeting us at the airport?" Tony asked. She figured she should probably respond to him at some point; this silent treatment was unnecessarily witchy, as he had little to do with her current mood. She wondered why he put up with her when she was acting like that.

"I believe it will be Officer Zirwas, one of my father's aides," she finally said. She glanced over at him to see him watching her with a concerned expression, and her previous conciliatory attitude was replaced by one of annoyance. She didn't need his pity. "Do not feel that you need to fill the silence with your talking," she snapped.

"I'm not. I was asking a legitimate question."

"And what difference would it make to you?" she asked. "Either someone is meeting us at the airport and take us to my father's home or I will hail a taxi and do the same. Either way, there is nothing for you to do."

"I was just curious," he muttered as he turned his attention to the window. She went back to the shredding—at this point, it was more of aerosolizing, as the pieces were so small—of her napkin, and they flew the rest of the way into Tel Aviv without speaking to each other.

There was nothing remarkable about the landing, and their silence toward each other continued as they stood side-by-side at the baggage claim, waiting for the duffels to appear. Tony's came first, and Ziva couldn't help but notice the way he favored his left arm as he pulled it off the carousel. She wondered if maybe he was a bit too hasty to be medically cleared to return to work and fly off to the other side of the world. Then again, Dr. Shin wouldn't have given her go-ahead if he wasn't ready. Still, she made a mental note to keep her eye on him and his arm until they were back in the States and he could follow-up in the orthopedics clinic.

After her bag had arrived, they turned toward the doors, scanning the crowds for someone looking vaguely familiar or bearing a sign with their names. Ziva had met Officer Zirwas once, the year before when she thought she was permanently reassigned to Mossad headquarters and her old position with _metsada_. She remembered how nervous the blond officer had been and how much he reminded her of a Jewish male version of Nikki Jardin; he wouldn't exactly have been her first choice as aide to the director of Mossad, but she figured her father had his reasons.

"Ziva!"

She spun in surprise at the familiar-yet-unexpected voice and heard Tony's barely audible, "What the hell?" as he likewise recognized the face of the man coming toward them. All things considered, Officer Michael Rivkin would probably have been the _last_ person she expected to meet them at the airport.

"Michael," she finally managed. "I was expecting Officer Aaron Zirwas." She had slipped into Hebrew unconsciously as she spoke to him.

He waved dismissively before pulling her into a large embrace and kissing each of her cheeks. Still stunned—and feeling very, very awkward—she didn't return the gesture. He continued in the same language she had spoken. "I saw your name on the director's schedule and successfully pulled rank to be the one to pick you up."

Tony cleared his throat, and she turned to him, feeling slightly guilty at having forgotten that he was there in her surprise at seeing Michael and excluding him from the conversation by speaking a language he knew about ten words of. She returned to English and made introductions. "Tony, my former partner, Officer Michael Rivkin. Michael, my current partner, Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo."

"I have heard much about you," Rivkin said as he took Tony's hand in a bone-crushing grasp.

"And I've heard absolutely nothing about you," DiNozzo replied. Ziva couldn't quite interpret the tone of his voice—maybe part annoyance, part anger, and part superiority at being the one who was spoken about. The two studied each other as if sizing the other up for some sort of duel or physical challenge, and Ziva had the sudden sensation of feeling like she had disappeared, for as much as either man noticed that she was still standing there.

"I am eager to see my father," she finally interjected when neither man had moved. Tony was the first to turn toward with an apologetic expression on his face, but it was Michael who spoke.

"Of course," he said smoothly, as if the entire exchange hadn't happened. "The car is in valet."

Rivkin continued to chat lightly throughout the drive, speaking mostly in English but occasionally throwing in comments in Hebrew that were clearly meant for Ziva's ears only. She was too distracted by the recent turn of events and the almost tangible anger and jealousy rolling off Tony to even notice, and didn't respond to anything he said in either language. "Are we going to my father's home or to the hospital?" she finally asked, not caring that she was interrupting him in mid-sentence.

"His home," Michael replied. She only nodded, and he again continued whatever he was talking about. Ziva glanced over at Tony to see him staring out the window of the car, his jaw set in an expression of annoyance. He wasn't even wincing at Michael's driving, a sure sign of just how bothered by the situation he was. She took his hand and interweaved their fingers, to let him know that she knew he was still there and to remind him that he was the one she had flown halfway around the world to have with her as she faced her father again. He gave her hand a quick squeeze and released it, never meeting her eye or changing his expression. She felt so frustrated at the world that it was all she could do not to scream aloud or pull a gun and start shooting. They continued the rest of the drive in silence, not looking at or touching each other, with only Michael Rivkin's voice and the sounds of traffic continuing in the background.

Her father's secured penthouse was exactly as she remembered it from the year before, but she saw Tony's eyebrows rise at the unexpected sight. She made a mental note to ask him what he had been expecting; judging from his expression, it wasn't the modern glass-and-chrome space in which he was standing, with large bullet-proof windows overlooking downtown Tel Aviv. She did have to admit that it _was_ quite different from her Silver Spring apartment and she could see him trying to reconcile what he was looking at from what he knew or suspected of her upbringing.

"Officer David." She turned to face her father's butler/manservant, who was standing unobtrusively just inside the foyer. "Would you like me to take your bags up to the guestroom?" He was speaking in English, probably for Tony's benefit. Every other time she had spoken to him, they had conversed in French.

"No, thank you, Henri," she replied, forcing a smile. "We will get them."

"Very well," he said with a nod, knowing better than to argue. "There are refreshments in the kitchen if you would like to eat once you are settled." He glanced over at Tony before returning his attention to Ziva. "I hope your flight was well."

"Yes, it was. Thank you." She gave him another tight smile before turning to Rivkin. "Thank you, Michael. We will take it from here."

He nodded, and she was oddly touched by the concerned expression on his face. "Be well, Ziva." Those were the same words he had spoken to her last time they talked, when she told that him she was returning to Washington. She tried not to think about the fact that that time, he had said them as he was getting out of her bed. This time, like then, he didn't look back as he left the room, returning to the private elevator that had carried them to the penthouse.

Ziva hoisted her bag from the floor and gestured for Tony to do the same as she nodded toward the stairs. "The guestroom is this way," she informed him. He just nodded in reply. She wasn't sure how much longer she could take this silent treatment; it was so unlike the Tony she knew that she was starting to get worried about him.

The guestroom, like the rest of the apartment, was decorated in the modern furniture that had become high fashion in Tel Aviv a few years before. Also like the rest of the apartment, it lacked any personal touches whatsoever. Already a divorcee with one remaining child, who was living on the other side of the world, when he had moved into the state-owned penthouse, Eli David hadn't bothered with decorating, instead setting free the same interior designer who had done the Prime Minister's home to do whatever she wanted. The final effect, while very fashionable, was completely cold and sterile.

She glanced over to find Tony calmly unpacking his duffle into one of the dressers against the wall, practically going out of his way to avoid her gaze. "What is wrong?" she finally asked. She hadn't meant for the words to come out sounding so angry.

He finally looked up at her, but then returned his attention to his luggage. "Nothing," he said, not even bothering to hide the bitterness from his voice.

"It is not nothing," she argued. "You have been acting like a child who had been made to clock out since Michael picked us up at the airport."

He frowned at the words, which let her know that she had botched yet another idiom, but didn't comment on them. That, even more so than his lack of complaints at Michael's driving, told her just how angry and annoyed he was. He loved to correct her phrases, so much so that she occassionally slipped one in that she knew was wrong just to see the expression on his face when he set her straight. This time, though, there was nothing. "Who is he?" he finally asked, his voice sounding tight and more than a little angry. She frowned and tried to figure out who he was talking about.

"Michael?" she asked. He nodded, not meeting her gaze. "I told you, he was my partner."

"You keep pictures of all of your former partners in your desk?"

She knew she should act surprised that he had been snooping through her desk, but even if she hadn't already known that, it was such a Tony thing to do that it wouldn't have caught her off guard anyway. "I put that there to make you jealous," she admitted. Interesting that now she knew that it had worked, she was annoyed by the fact he felt that way. "You were being very persistent about my trip to Israel and I thought that that was what you deserved." He looked a little insulted, which prompted her to remind him: "We were not sleeping together at that point."

"So you never slept with him?" She hesitated, and he knew immediately what that meant. His hands went into the air briefly in frustration. "Do you sleep with _all_ of your partners?"

"I worked with Jen Shepard in Eastern Europe for a long period of time," she reminded him. "Or would you still choose to believe that?" As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Teasing each other about sex was fine and good when both were in a teasing mood, but this was clearly not one of those times. He looked less than amused. She took a more serious tact before this could turn into a full-out fight. "Years ago, yes, Michael and I slept together." She couldn't decide if that was an understatement or exactly the truth. They had slept together, but wasn't just the one-time casual thing she was letting him imply. Michael was the only man she slept with off-the-job for the better part of four years, but to say that they had had a relationship would be overdoing it. She certainly never felt the same about Michael as she currently did about Tony; she didn't know if she ever felt anything for him at all. "And then I found out about my father's illness immediately before my mission to Morocco, and he provided... comfort." Tony's eyes widened at the words, but she shook her head. "I did not tell him why, nor did he care enough to ask." She paused. "My trip back to Israel in September was for my father, not for Michael." He still looked unconvinced, which prompted her to inform him, "You were the first whom I told about my father."

"Me and Gibbs," he pointed out, still sounding angry. She shook her head.

"The diagnosis, yes, but you were the first I had told that my father was dying, or even that he was ill."

He sighed, and she knew that the brewing argument was coming to an end, albeit one without much of a resolution. Sure enough, he wrapped his arms around her, and she leaned into his chest, suddenly feeling all the exhaustion of the past week—the past _year—_hit her at once. "I'm sorry," she heard him murmur, although she made no effort to move or respond. "I guess I'm more tired than I thought. I have been acting rather childish, haven't I?"

Instead of responding to the question they both knew the answer of, she pulled away just enough to rise on her toes to kiss him lightly. "You can rest here or go the kitchen for the food that Henri has set out. I will get in touch with Officer Zirwas and find out when my father is expecting us."

He nodded at the plan and she turned away to leave, but his arm stopped her. "Ziva," he said. She could see him trying to figure out just what to say and how to say it. He finally settled on, "Thanks for letting me come and be here for you."

She nodded at the words and the look in Tony's eyes, the one that said everything he wanted to say and didn't know how to put into words. "I will let you know the agenda shortly," she told him as she left the room.


	11. Chapter 11

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 11**

_A/N: Congratulations to my roommie (well, former roommie, now, sadly enough) and her new husband on their wedding yesterday! What a busy weekend--flying back from DC, assembling programs, manicures, pedicures, rehearsal, rehearsal dinner, going on a five mile run with the bride on the morning of her wedding day, hair and make-up appointments... the life of a bridesmaid is not an easy one :) And now that that's behind us, as is the painting and furnishing of the condo, I can actually go on vacation and relax, which means getting some serious writing done (why is it that RL is always so busy, and yet never all that exciting?) _

* * *

Mossad Officer Aaron Zirwas hated hospitals. Maybe if he had a happy memory to associate with one, like the birth of a child, he would feel differently, but all he could think about whenever he passed through hospital doors was sickness, death, and not a small amount of fear, all assualting each of his five senses. The sounds of crying families, the smells of antiseptic, the sights of patients being wheeled around in their wheelchairs with IV poles attached to the back, the crawling feeling on his skin. Even the air tasted differently, but that could have just been his imagination, his mind bringing back memories of the metallic and smoky tang to the air of another hospital many years ago, where his grandfather had the misfortunate of coming in for an elective hernia repair the same day Hamas decided to bomb it. He shuddered slightly and squared his shoulders as he entered the building, reminding himself that he was a Mossad officer, not an eleven-year-old boy.

He kept his expression blank as he strode confidently toward the private wing of the hospital, remembering his instructor's words from Mossad training: _If you look like you know where you're going and what you're doing, no one will question you_. Sure enough, the doctors and nurses he passed gave him nothing more than a curteous nod, nobody stopping and asking what he was doing or who he was going to see.

He found Director Eli David sitting in the chair of his room—more of a suite, really—already wearing the light-weight tan suit that seemed to be his summer uniform. "Ah, Aaron," he said as he noticed his aide's arrival. "I have been expecting you. Is everything prepared for my discharge?"

"Yes, Director," Zirwas replied with a nod. "I have spoken to your doctors and nurses, and your driver is waiting at the entrance with your car." He didn't add that he had arranged for the director's favorite beverage to be well-stocked in the vehicle, hoping that it would come as a pleasant surprise to the man. He was beginning to realize that his job was more about anticipating the director's every need than any sort of intelligence gathering he could do.

"And my daughter? She has arrived safely?"

Zirwas hesitated barely a beat, but it was long enough for David to take notice and frown. "Officer David and Special Agent DiNozzo landed at Ben-Gurion a few hours ago," he said quickly. "Officer Rivkin picked them up from the airport and—." He stopped talking at the hand David held up.

"Officer Rivkin?" he echoed. "Your instructions were to pick up Ziva and Special Agent DiNozzo from the airport. They were not to pick them up at the airport if you couldn't find someone else to do so for you."

Zirwas flushed. "I understand that, sir, but Officer Rivkin saw the flight arrival information and asked that he be the one to pick them up. As he had been partnered with your daughter—Officer David—in the past, I did not see the harm—"

"This job is about observation, Aaron," David interrupted. "If one does not carefully observe his surroundings, he is bound to make mistakes, and mistakes are often fatal. I would hate to lose a talented _Metsada_ operative or to have to call my friend Leon at NCIS and explain why his special agent will be returning in a box simply because of my aide's carelessness."

"Sir?" He wasn't quite following the conversation, and wondered if the director's words had anything to do with this mysterious illness he had been treated for.

"One does not send a former lover to pick up a woman and her current lover from the airport, especially when all three parties are armed," David summed up. Zirwas flushed again, this time in realization of his mistake as well as the frank way his boss was speaking about his daughter's sex life.

"I apologize, sir. I did not realize my mistake."

"It is not me you should be apologizing to, Aaron. It is Ziva and Special Agent DiNozzo. And I would be very careful in how I go about doing that, if I were you. I have seen my daughter's abilities with a knife, and I have heard rumors that Special Agent DiNozzo is no novice with that weapon, either." He remained very calm throughout the explanation, as if there was nothing unusual about discussing various ways one person could kill another, and Zirwas swallowed again nervously. For as much of an honor as it was to serve as the director's aide, he often felt that he would be much safer away from the director. The Beirut field office had to be safer than around Director David and the rest of his Mossad-trained family.

---

Tony DiNozzo woke with a start and looked around, confused about the unfamiliar surroundings. Still disoriented by the long flight, time zone changes, and short nap, it took him a moment to remember that he was in Tel Aviv, in Ziva's father's penthouse apartment. _And if that's not a scary thought, I don't know what is_. There was just something about being in the home of a man who not only had the ability to kill DiNozzo in any number of ways, but also had the authority to order any of over a thousand people to do the same, that was a little unsettling. And the fact that that man was the father of the woman he had been sleeping with for four months certainly wasn't helping matters.

_And speaking of Ziva..._ He frowned as he tried to figure out where she was or what she could be doing. She had been like the Energizer bunny all week, with no indication of stopping. He figured he had about seven hours of sleep on her—six very interrupted and uncomfortable hours on the plane (not even first class seats were as comfortable as a real bed), and another one in the guestroom, and she was still going. The thought brought a mental picture of her in a bunny suit and a base drum, which made him chuckle at the places his brain was going that day. He changed the mental image slightly from a pink full-body bunny suit to a Playboy bunny suit and nodded in satisfaction. That was better.

Thoughts of Ziva—especially thoughts of Ziva in fancy underwear—brought his mind back full circle to questions of where she was. Realizing he wasn't going to get an answer to that by sitting in bed, he reluctantly set out in search of her.

The entire penthouse was driving him mad, just because he had one idea in his mind, and this was nothing like that. He pictured maybe a more grown-up version of Ziva's apartment; nicely decorated, sure, but with understated taste and a good mix of pointless decorating items and personal touches—the pictures and Shabbat candles her father had sent for their undercover mission had made it to her real apartment when that was over. Something like the condo she was living in in Georgetown while they were undercover, perhaps. Somehow, he couldn't see Ziva being raised by a man who enjoyed modern furniture and chrome-and-glass decor. He had made cracks about apartments being "straight out of the catalog" before, but this was nothing like the Ikea living rooms that seemed be everywhere on military bases—that store went a long way on a college student budget or enlisted Marine pay. No, this was something right out of _Make Your Daughter's Boyfriend Feel Like He'll Never Be Able To Provide For Her Quarterly_. He had yet to meet the man and already resented him just for that, and then he felt strangely guilty for resenting a man who was dying of a disease so rare that there was only one physician in the world who was treating it.

He finally found Ziva in the kitchen, talking to Henri the butler in French, a plate of gourmet-looking finger food between them. She looked up to see him standing in the doorway and instantly smiled, probably without realizing she was doing so. He knew that smile—it was small, just the beginnings of her lips curling in an upward direction, but her eyes lit up more brightly than if she been grinning widely. He wondered how long she had been smiling at him like that before he had started realizing it. "Did you have a good nap?" she asked, switching seamlessly from French to English.

"Yeah," he replied, glancing down at the tray of food in efforts of identifying any of it. "The bed's pretty comfortable."

"Yes." He glanced up at the subtle change in her voice and could figure out from her expression what she was thinking: _later tonight, let's try it out_. At least, that's what he hoped she was thinking. He grinned roguishly, and when she met his gaze with a knowing smile of her own that pretty much confirmed it. Henri cleared his throat lightly to remind them that he was still in the room, and Tony returned his attention to the food, trying to keep his mind from wandering to later that evening.

"Any plans for the day?" he finally asked, remembering why she hadn't taken a nap when she had suggested that he do so. He glanced up to see her shaking her head.

"I was not able to get in touch with Officer Zirwas to see if my father was available tonight. We can go to the hospital in the morning."

"Or we can just go," he said with a frown. "He's your father and he's in the hospital. I don't think you have to worry about interrupting any of his top-secret super-spy meetings."

"No," she replied, sounding slightly irrate. "But a trip to the hospital to visit my father would be counterproductive if he is having tests done or is in surgery."

"Oh," he answered dumbly. He hadn't thought about that. "So... What are we doing until then?"

She shrugged a shoulder, and that teasing glint was back in her eye, but she didn't say anything about sex. "There is food," she said, gesturing toward the plate. "The _sosiska v teste_ are quite good." He must have looked as confused as he felt, because she pointed to something that looked almost like a fancy version of a hotdog wrapped in some sort of pastry. "It is Russian, translated to 'sausage in the dough'. I believe you would call them... swine in a blanket?"

"Pigs in a blanket," he corrected with a chuckle. "So that's sausage?"

"It is kosher beef sausage, yes," Henri informed him in a slightly nasal, almost French accent. He felt his face fall, and Ziva smiled, knowing what he was thinking.

"You are in Israel now, Tony. It would not be easy for you to find anything containing pork."

"I know," he grumbled. He sat down and took one of the sausages anyway, and had to admit that it was really good, despite how austentacious it looked. As soon as the first bite hit his mouth, he realized how long it had been since he had anything to eat—when was that final meal service on the airplane?—and how famished he was. He finished one and reached for another, much to Ziva's amusement. She didn't say anything about it as she turned back to Henri and continued their conversation, this time in English. He appreciated that she wasn't excluding him by speaking a language he didn't understand, even when he couldn't care less about the conversation. It sounded like she was getting caught up on all the office scuttlebutt of Mossad. It was somewhat entertaining to him that even one of the most mysterious agencies in the world, one that cloaked itself in rumors and hear-say to keep people from knowing what they were really up to, had watercooler gossip.

He stopped himself after three 'pigs in blankets', not wanting to fill up too much on snacks before dinner, whenever that would be. If these sausages were any indications of Henri's cooking, he wouldn't want to miss out on that. And he thought it would be hard to keep from gaining weight with Ziva's food. Sensing that he was getting bored, Ziva ended her conversation and turned to him. "I can give you a tour of the apartment, if you would like."

"Sure," he replied. He somehow doubted that this was where Ziva had grown up, but maybe seeing how her father lived would help shed some light on the aspects of her life that she was always reluctant to share. Although, if the few rooms he had seen were any indication, there wasn't much more that could be learned from this place. It may be where Director David resided, but there was very little evidence that the man _lived_ there.

She wove him through the kitchen and into the formal dining room before moving onto the living room, which he had seen earlier that day when they arrived. They stopped for a minute to admire the clear day through the large windows, and again, he was struck by how different Tel Aviv really was to the city he had imagined. Maybe it was all the movies he had seen of the Middle East—the _Indiana Jones_ trilogy, the real trilogy and not that recent farce that Harrison Ford decided to do for some extra spending money, came instantly to mind—but this was a real, modern city, skyscrapers and cars and all.

They had reached the foyer area at the private elevator doors that provided the only entrance to the penthouse, which provided them with some choices: see the remaining rooms on the first floor, or go back upstairs where the guestroom was. Tony had been suspecting that Ziva was getting bored with the tour, and he had to admit that there were certainly more exciting things he could think of doing with the time. She had a teasing glint in her eye as she turned to him. "There is my father's study and library as well as the master suite on this floor," she told him, "or we could return upstairs."

He felt a grin starting to form on his face as he placed his hands on her hips. She took a small step forward closer to him, their bodies almost touching. "Hmm," he said, feigning thoughtfullness. "That's an interesting set of options, but—." He stopped talking at the sudden opening of the elevator doors, and turned toward the sound, finding himself facing one Director Eli David.

He hastily dropped his hands and took a step back from Ziva, feeling suddenly like he was seventeen again and caught in the backseat of his car with his hand up Katie Sachs' dress in her driveway when he was supposed to be dropping her off from the Homecoming dance. Colonel Sachs had looked a lot less amused and a lot more homicidal than Director David currently did, however. "Papa," Ziva said quickly, clearly just as surprised to see her father standing there as DiNozzo was.

"Ziva," he replied evenly. For a few long seconds, nobody moved or spoke. Seeming to know what her father was thinking, Ziva stepped forward and kissed the older man on the cheek. To Tony, the move seemed forced and almost awkward, and again he wondered at the father-daughter relationship that would make Ziva feel expected greet the man as such. It was only there for an instant, brief enough that Tony wondered if he imagined it, but he could have sworn he saw a look of satisfaction on Eli David's face, as if the man was pleased with the power he had over his only daughter. Or maybe he was just projecting, seeing what he thought the Mossad director should be feeling. He wondered what that said about him, that he didn't even know the man but was already distrustful of him.

After that stilted greeting, Ziva stepped back, and the elder David's eyes finally traveled over to the man standing with his daughter. "Special Agent DiNozzo," he said slowly. Again, there was a look on his face that DiNozzo couldn't quite interpret, something that seemed part amused yet also part hostile. "I have heard much about you. I am eager to find out how much of it is true." He held his hand out as a greeting, and when the NCIS agent took it, he found the Mossad director's grasp to be firm, the handshake of a powerful man. He certainly didn't see any sign that this was a man in his final weeks or months of life.

"I wouldn't believe everything you've been told," Tony replied in a tone that he was trying to make light, but just ended up sounding forced. David smiled thinly.

"One does not make it to my position by doing so, Agent DiNozzo," he replied. Somehow, there was an implied threat in the words that Tony couldn't begin to explain. He did all he could to hold the man's gaze and not swallow visibly.

This was not going as well as he had hoped, and yet somehow, was proceeding exactly as he had expected.


	12. Chapter 12

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 12**

_A/N: My muse took a brief vacation after the wedding; I think it wanted to go along with my roommate and her husband on their honeymoon, but I stopped it before it could get on the plane and took it home. Hopefully it'll be done pouting soon and I can get back to writing. In the meantime, thank you for your reviews, please keep them coming, and I hope you continue to enjoy what I have written thus far._

* * *

There was a muted light coming in from the curtained window, the night lights of a busy city as seen from several stories above the ground, when Ziva David awoke, instantly alert but with no sign of what had caused her to be so. She glanced over to the other side of the king sized bed to see Tony still sleeping sounding, slow snores coming from his open mouth. She smiled slightly and took a second to watch him sleep, thinking about how much things had changed in the course of the months they had been sleeping together. In the beginning, he was never quick to sleep, sometimes getting up at odd hours in the middle of the night to go to the other room and watch tv or check the news or just do something else. Sometimes, something would disturb her sleep and she would wake up to catch him looking at her as if trying to figure out the course of events that caused them to be in the same bed. Now, he seemed accustomed to her presence, sometimes falling asleep immediately and staying that way until her alarm went off at 0500. He seemed more trusting in those moments, his guard completely down, and she was still surprised at times by the fact that they were comfortable enough together for that. Maybe it was the fact that she saw it in Tony that made her realize that it was not something she had experienced with any other man before. Of course, she had never been with the same man exclusively for four months, either, so this whole relationship was one of firsts for her.

She briefly contemplated waking Tony for an encore of their performance earlier that evening, when they discovered just how comfortable the large bed really was, but ultimately decided against it. Despite how much more sleep he had gotten in the last twenty-four hours than her, he wasn't nearly as experienced of an international traveler and needed the extra hours to adjust to the drastically different time zone. So with a rueful smile, she carefully pulled back the covers and stepped out of bed. She grabbed the first shorts and tee-shirt she found after rummaging through the drawers, marveling at the fact that while both she and Tony had unpacked their luggage earlier that day, they seemed to have done so in a manner that made no logical sense.

Still not having any idea of what had roused her from sleep in the first place, she made her way toward the stairs, gathering her hair into a quick ponytail as she walked and realizing as she did so just how long she had allowed it to get. She made a mental note to make an appointment with her old stylist before moving that thought to the back of her mind. She doubted it was the need of a haircut that had woken her from sleep.

The kitchen light was on, prompting her to turn in that direction at the bottom of the stairs. She wasn't really surprised to see her father sitting at the small table, a cup of tea in one hand and a stack of newspaper at his elbow. He had always been an insomniac, and she knew from her own time in hospitals how much that could mess with sleep-wake cycles.

He glanced up at her as she entered the kitchen before returning his attention to the newspaper in his hands. "The water in the kettle is still hot, if you would like some tea," he informed her. She nodded and reached for a mug, trying not to think about how strange it was to be sitting in her father's kitchen fixing herself tea at 0300. Of course, 0300 in Tel Aviv meant—she cut herself off before she could calculate the time in Washington, DC, knowing from experience that the best way to adjust to a new time zone is to immediately immerse oneself in it and not continuously think about what time it would be in the previous time zone. "You could not sleep, either?" her father asked.

"No," she replied, figuring that it was such an obvious answer that it didn't need much of an answer anyway. As if she would have voluntarily woken herself at 0300. Not even when she was working for Mossad—_truly_ working for Mossad, not as a liaison—did she often wake at that hour.

"Reading helps," he offered. She smirked slightly as she filled the tea ball with loose tea.

"I did not want to turn on a lamp and wake Tony," she replied.

He nodded knowingly and seemed to let the subject drop, returning to his newspaper. His eyes weren't even on her as he commented, "I did not realize that your time in America had turned you into a gridiron fan."

She stared at him, confused about the comment and the name of the sport that Americans insisted on calling 'football' and wondered where that had come from. Knowing the symptoms of ABPD as she did, she couldn't help but consider the possibility that his disease had advanced further than she had realized and that he was now in the dementia stage. However, when he glanced up at her again, it was with an amused expression on his face. He nodded toward the shirt she was wearing, and she glanced down to discover that in the darkness, she had thrown on one of Tony's Ohio State University 2002 National Champions tee-shirts. "It is Tony's," she explained needlessly. Her father still looked amused, but didn't comment further as his eyes returned to the newspaper. Knowing that sitting around the table with her father rarely resulted in conversation, Ziva reached for one of the papers he had sitting off to the side and began reading. She almost felt comforted by the sight of the familar Hebrew script, more so than she would have expected. _Perhaps I should subscribe to _Haaretz_ when I return to Washington_, she mused as she scanned the headlines. She immediately dismissed that thought; the paper edition in North America only came out once a week, and accessing it online was free.

"I do not think I ever expressed my sympathy for the death of your friend." She frowned and glanced up at her father, trying to figure out who he was talking about. In the course of her career and her life, she had seen the deaths of many friends and colleagues. "Director Jennifer Shepard?"

She stiffened at the name and the fact that he had been the one to bring her up; Director Eli David never did anything casually, not even conversations with his daughter. She figured there was a reason for his words, and guessed it had to do with her failure as protection detail and the fact that that had been what had gotten her reassigned—well, what had provided the cover for her reassignment—to Mossad in the first place. She had always assumed that the fact that he had never brought it up the year before was because of his disappointment with her actions.

Seeming to know what she was thinking, he shook his head slightly. "I did not mean to imply that it was any failure on your part," he continued. "I have read your reports, as well as those from Special Agents DiNozzo and Gibbs. I understand that your friend specifically ordered you and Special Agent DiNozzo to abandon her protection detail. A foolish move, but I can understand her reasons."

"You say you understand, but you would never order your detail away," Ziva replied tightly. "Nor would they listen if you did so." She didn't acknowledge his continued use of the phrase 'your friend', knowing what he meant by it. Despite Ziva's presence as a liaison at NCIS for those three years, relationships between the two agencies were never as close as they currently were, and the reasons for that were the directors—Director Shepard was Ziva's friend, Director Vance was Eli's. It was that simple, at least in Eli's mind. For a man who built a career and preserved his life on the knowing who his friends were, it was an important distinction.

"Had you not listened, you would have ended up as dead as she," Eli said, his voice still seeming casual. She stiffened.

"You do not know that."

"Ah, but I do." His tone was confident. "Director Shepard went to that warehouse with the intention of dying."

"Diner," Ziva corrected, her voice cold. "It was a diner."

"Ah, yes. I apologize. Trivial details do not concern me as much anymore as they once had." He took a sip of tea. "My point is, she went there to die, and would have done so whether you and Special Agent DiNozzo were there or not. She would have made sure of that, and that, my daughter, is what I understand." He looked at her meaningfully, and her eyes widened as she began to process what he was saying. He didn't give her an opportunity to speak. "Your friend, Director Shepard, she had a fatal and incurable illness, yes?"

"That is no reason to kill oneself," she snapped. He shook his head with an expression akin to sympathy in his eyes.

"To have achieved so much in a short lifetime, to have obtained such a position of power, and then to have it ripped away, to have it stolen in a betrayal by one's own body... It is something I hope you never have to experience, Ziva."

She rose angrily from her chair and moved to leave the kitchen, but stopped herself before passing through the door. "You cannot give up," she all but ordered forcefully. The expression on her father's face was a combination of sadness and amusement.

"Determination alone does not accomplish everything."

"It accomplishes something!"

"No, it does not. Determination without skill is just a fool being too much of a fool to realize his own foolishness." His eyes returned to his paper, telling Ziva that the conversation was all but over. "This is not how I envisioned the end of my life to be."

"I never envisioned your life to have an end," Ziva admitted softly. It was true; for as long as she could remember; her father had always been a larger-than-life presence to her, even when she didn't want him to be. He was her father, her instructor, her superior, her director, and even in her escape to DC four years ago—which she would freely admit, but only to herself, being an escape—he was still those things.

This time, when his eyes rose to meet hers, there was only sadness in them, and in the smile he gave her as well. "Go back to sleep, my daughter. We have much to discuss in the morning, when we are both rested."


	13. Chapter 13

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 13**

_A/N: Wow, I love how last night's episode completely upset me and shot everything about my series down under (and I don't mean Australia). And yes, that was sarcasm (it's difficult to get that across via the typed word). Sigh. I guess everything is now officially AU (as if it wasn't before). So, in light of that episode, I feel the need to retreat more into my more happy NCIS world. And, of course, by 'happy NCIS world', I mean the place where the director of Mossad is dying of a very rare and always fatal genetic disease, Tony and Ziva are trying how to figure out how to be together without killing one another, The Ohio State University is always the more superior school (oh, wait... that one's true), and the wives of rabbis are often armed and come after federal agents (okay, so it was one wife of one rabbi, but whatever)._

_Does anyone have any clue what is going on with the show? Because I'm completely lost about where this whole 'Ziva might be a bad guy' story line came from. Seriously, I didn't see this coming. And what was with the teaser? Who's not coming back? If anyone has any insights, please PM me and give me what you've got._

_Okay, back the story. Oh, just as a sidebar, this chapter and the next overlap a bit. _

_And welcome to the more-happy-than-canon NCIS world._

* * *

Tony DiNozzo woke slowly to find himself alone—_again_—in the large bed of the guestroom in Eli David's penthouse apartment, but this time knew that that had not been the situation when he had gone to bed. He seemed to remember waking up at one point in the middle of the night to find Ziva curled up in his arms, but was pretty sure that was just a dream—they usually kept their distance while they slept, something they never talked about but both preferred. At least, he knew he preferred it, and just assumed that she felt the same way, although he was starting to see that maybe them making assumptions about their relationship wasn't the best way to go about things.

He blinked that thought out of his still-groggy mind as he looked around slowly, and it didn't take him long to register the sight of Ziva in a chair by the window, running clothes on and her Sig in pieces on the window sill. He remembered another time he had woken to find Ziva in a chair on the other side of the room, but that was years ago, and the sex that they had had the evening before was just an act for the sake of the FBI team watching them from across the street. _Nothing faked about last night_, he thought with an involuntary smirk. The bed had turned out to be just as comfortable as he had imagined.

"You're up early," he finally commented. She nodded but didn't reply, her attention focused on the handgun and cleaning kit in front of her. He frowned. Maybe having her in his arms wasn't a dream after all; it seemed to be a position she gravitated to, whether knowingly or not, when she had a nightmare, and that could certainly be what had gotten her unhinged enough to clean an already pristine weapon. He tried again, taking note of the clothes she was wearing. "Does Daddy Director have a pair of bikes around here that we're taking for a ride?"

He knew for sure that something was up when his joking nickname for her father didn't elicit any sort of response. She only shook her head. "I went for a run already," she informed the Sig. At least, he could only assume she was talking to the Sig, and not him, because that was where she was looking.

"I thought Dr. Shin said two weeks? It's been three days."

She shrugged. "I did not run far, only about five kilometers, and I ran slowly." For her, 'running slowly' probably meant that she didn't break any world records.

"You're speaking in metric," he pointed out. "I was right. Coming back to Israel makes you revert."

She finally did glance at him with an annoyed expression, which was actually the goal. Annoyed was better than a complete lack of emotion. "We use the metric system here in Israel, Tony," she snapped as her eyes went back to her cleaning tools and Sig.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, his voice suddenly serious. She glanced up at the change and her expression softened slightly, but she shook her head.

"No," she replied softly. He sighed inwardly, even though he hadn't expected differently.

"What time is it, anyway?" he asked instead. She pressed a few buttons on her running watch before answering.

"A little after 0900."

"So that would make it... 1600 back home?"

She shook her head. "You are going the wrong direction. It is 0200 in DC."

"No wonder I'm so tired."

"You should not be thinking about what time it is back home. You will adjust faster if you do not."

"Speaking from all of your experience?"

She looked over at him again briefly before turning back to her handgun. "Yes," she said simply. As soon as the words had been out of his mouth, he knew how stupid they were; she was Ziva David, international spy extraordinaire. Of course she would know about how to adjust to changing time zones.

"You could have woken me up to join you on your run."

"Sleep also helps in adjusting to a new time zone." He was about to comment that he was pretty sure he had gotten enough sleep over the last two days or however long it had been since leaving her apartment, but she spoke first. "I needed some time alone to think," she admitted. He nodded; although it hurt a bit that she felt the need to get away from him to work out her problems, he was glad that she was being honest about why she didn't wake him. "Tomorrow, we will run together."

"At 0500?" he asked with a groan.

"We are in Tel Aviv in August, Tony. You would not be able to run in the heat if we left much later than that."

"But you could?"

"Yes." There was no bravado in her voice, just a statement of fact. "We often ran in the early afternoons after a full meal in our uniforms and rucksacks when I was in the IDF."

"That was more than twelve years ago," he pointed out. "Unless you're talking about your more recent experience as Major Kenig." He doubted it; their training exercises tended to go along the lines of paintball tournaments or drinking games. He made a mental note to remember to challenge Major Brad Austin to a game of beer pong after they got back; the Army officer was an Ohio State alum and was probably pretty good at the game. That and tailgating were practically graduation requirements.

She rolled her eyes at the thought, probably having come to the same conclusion as him, only without involving challenging her colleagues to drinking games. "Mossad conditioning is also not easy," she reminded him.

"You should try training for the Final Four." She frowned at the unfamiliar term, and before he got annoyed, he had to remind himself that she wasn't raised in this country. Actually, she was. This time, it was _him_ who was from the different country. It was a strange difference, but one he didn't let himself think about for long. "College basketball playoffs," he explained.

"Ah." There was a slight teasing glint in her eyes, one that gave him hope that maybe things weren't as strange as they could be. "It does not seem that difficult. You just run back and forth with the ball and try to get it in the loops."

"_Hoops_. And it's harder than it looks." She rolled her eyes and smirked, and he crossed his arms over his chest. "You'd like to try? We'll find a basketball court and play some one-on-one. Or a _hoop_ and play half court. Or just HORSE."

"What do horses have to do with basketball?"

"It's a game where you spell out—never mind. It's easier to demonstrate than explain." There it was. She was actually smiling. And Gibbs claimed that his excessive talking was only going to get him in trouble.

She finished cleaning her weapon and left it on the windowsill before crawling back onto the bed. She gave him a long, lingering kiss before pulling away slightly. "Good morning," she said.

"Mmm. Morning." It wasn't the most coherent of replies, but it got the point across. "Are we having a stay-in-bed day today?" They were never actually 'stay-in-bed' days. The closest it would come would be 'get up early, work out, get back in bed' days, but he rarely complained about those, either. Any sort of day that involved a bed and Ziva David was probably going to be a good day in his book.

Sadly, this did not seem to be the case as she pulled away again. "No," she said, straightening to get out of bed. "We are expected at breakfast."

"Oh." Well, at least there was food, and then maybe he could convince Ziva to show him around the city, or take him to the beach, or—

"And then my father and I have some business to discuss." _Or none of those_, he thought sourly. It didn't escape his attention that her previous cold mood reappeared with that sentence. He wondered if maybe she already knew what that business was, which made him wonder what it could be. She wouldn't have agreed to let him come along with her to Israel if she knew she was being sent out on a mission, would she? Maybe he was just along to provide a cover and an alibi—

_Stop it_, he scolded himself. There was no reason not to trust Ziva. Or was there? Aside from the things one would learn about another person by all but living with her—which side of the bed she preferrs, how she likes her coffee, which wine she liked with which main courses, how he could measure how good of a day she was going to have by how fast she ran in the morning—he really didn't know much about her. He didn't even know where she had gone to high school or college. Actually, now that he thought about it, he didn't even know if she _had_ gone to college. Those were usually things that came out before a couple reached the four month mark of their relationship, or at least he would think. "You should get out of bed and take a shower."

He blinked at the sudden intrusion of her voice into her thoughts and managed a grin, although he could tell it wasn't his best effort, and judging by the confused expression on her face, she agreed. "Are you saying I stink?"

"Yes," she said bluntly. She softened the word by leaning over and kissing him again. "Now go."


	14. Chapter 14

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 14**

* * *

Eli David was already sitting at the formal—if one could describe the monstrosity of chrome and glass that the designer claimed was 'all the rage' in Tel Aviv these days as 'formal'—dining room table, again reading his newspapers, when his daughter returned from her morning run. He glanced up, an eyebrow raised. "I was not aware that people who have recently broken their ankles should be running."

She studied him for a moment before looking away. "It is fine," she said stiffly. He had a feeling she would have said the same thing if said ankle were dislocated from the rest of her leg by some sort of explosion or, knowing her driving, a traffic accident. He knew it would be pointless to argue with her about it further, especially since he didn't really care whether she ran on it or not. Instead, he calmly turned a page in the paper.

"I was hoping you and Special Agent DiNozzo could join me for breakfast this morning," he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her frown at the comment, probably thinking about the conversation they had had several hours earlier. "And then after breakfast, the two of us will discuss business." This time, she visibly stiffened and began heading out of the room, toward the stairs.

"I will talk to Tony about breakfast when he wakes up," she informed him, not meeting his eye. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"A few hours here and there," he replied. That was all he had ever gotten his entire adult life, from his years at the military academy, through his time in the IDF, and into his Mossad career. She nodded at the words; considering the similarities of their careers—as well as the differences—she was probably the same way. "And when will Special Agent DiNozzo be awake?"

She stiffened again, and he guessed it was at his use of DiNozzo's formal title as she tried to decide if it were a sign of his disapproval of the relationship, or of the man. "When he wakes up," she snapped before leaving the dining room hastily. He sighed quietly at her departure. He had known that he had to be careful in how he stated his case to Ziva and explain why exactly he had wanted her to come home, but when they were talking a few hours before, he found himself speaking without thinking, something that had never been a problem for him before. Although he would chose to believe it were not the case, he couldn't help but wonder if his disease had gone beyond tremors and headaches and syncopal episodes and fully into his brain. If that were true, he might have less time than he thought.

"Sir? Would you like breakfast to be served?" He glanced up to find Henri watching him with an expectant look on his face. He shook his head.

"No, thank you, Henri. I will wait for Ziva and Special Agent DiNozzo."

"Very well," the butler said with a nod. "Perhaps more tea?"

"Yes, that would be appreciated." He tried to move his arm to reach for the mug to hand it over, but found it unresponsive to commands. He sighed inwardly and covered the struggle by focusing on the newspaper, pretending he had no intention of meeting Henri halfway. If the butler noticed, he gave no indication, walking over to the opposite side of the table to retrieve the mug. "And please make sure there is fresh coffee for Special Agent DiNozzo," he added. As an afterthought, he continued, "And likely Ziva as well. It seems she has picked up the habit of drinking it in her time in America."

"I will make sure that is prepared for their arrival," Henri agreed as he disappeared again into the kitchen. David returned his attention to the news he had been missing out on while he was hospitalized and stifled another sigh. When was it that it was determined that this was how the end of his life would be, sitting at a table he hated, reading news that was hardly newsworthy as he waited for the daughter who did not know how she should feel about him and her lover to come downstairs and join him for breakfast? If Raisa hadn't left, if Tali hadn't died, if Ari—. He stopped himself before he could finish that thought. If 'regrets' were what he had for his relationship with Ziva, he had no word for what he felt about the son he had sired.

It was a little over an hour after Ziva returned from her run that he heard her and DiNozzo descend the stairs. Both appeared to have recently taken a shower, but judging by the fact that DiNozzo's hair was almost entirely dry and Ziva's, gathered into a quick bun, still looked quite wet, he was guessing that they did not shower together. He wondered if the fact that he had noticed was a result of his analytical mind and a lifetime spent observing people, or if it came from some desire to protect his daughter. Judging by the lack of emotions that he was currently feeling about it, he guessed it was the former. _Just an occupational hazard_. The thought actually amused him to some degree.

"_Boker tov_," he greeted as they entered the dining room. Ziva scowled at his use of Hebrew, but DiNozzo blinked a few times. David could practically see the wheels turning as he tried to figure out whether he should answer in Hebrew or switch to English. He was surprised when the NCIS special agent did neither.

"_Buenos dias_," he replied. David had to laugh and likewise switched to Spanish.

"Please, have a seat," he said in that language, gesturing to the places already set at the table.

"English would be fine, Papa," Ziva said crossly, in English, as she forcefully yanked on one of the chairs to pull it away from the table so she could sit. Both DiNozzo and David raised their eyebrows at that, but neither commented.

"I would like to apologize for the events at the airport yesterday." Both Ziva and DiNozzo straightened at the sudden turn in conversation. "Had I realized that Aaron would be so foolish as to shirk his duties in that manner, I would have given him more specific instructions."

"It was... unexpected," Ziva admitted. _And awkward, too, I'm sure_, David thought. DiNozzo didn't comment as he studied the selection of breads in front of him. Perhaps it was for the best, however; David had no problems with Rivkin as a _metsada _operative, but the man left a lot to be desired in terms of boyfriend material for his daughter, for many of the same reasons that Ziva was not good girlfriend material for him, especially while she was _metsada_. David had a suspicion that maybe now that Rivkin had seen Ziva with DiNozzo, he would gracefully bow out of the picture. He had not been pleased, neither as a father nor as a director, when that had been who Ziva had turned to the year before after hearing of his diagnosis, but could understand her reasons for doing so. There were so few people she had allowed herself to get close to in her adult life, and many of those were then thousands of kilometers from her. She had worked with and slept with Rivkin before and trusted him with her life—which was why that had been whom David had sent with Ziva to Morocco—and was thus the only natural choice at that time.

As far as DiNozzo, well, he was still reserving judgement for the time being. Based on the information Ziva had collected years before when serving as Ari's control officer, as well as the more recent intel Officer Bashan had provided him with, DiNozzo did not seem like he could be much of a better candidate. However, Ziva apparently felt a great deal for the man, maybe so far as to have fallen in love with him, which was never something that could be said for Michael Rivkin. David knew that had done enough in the course of Ziva's life to interfere with her happiness, and found now that, although it was likely too late, that was not how he wanted her to remember him.

A silence had fallen over the table as the three continued to eat, none knowing exactly what to say to the others. Henri appeared with a coffee decanter and asked who would like some; both Ziva and DiNozzo held up their mugs hastily. It did not escape David's attention how Ziva had rolled her eyes when DiNozzo reached for the sugar to add to his beverage.

They eventually fell into an easy pattern of small talk—comments about weather and American politics always went a long way when nobody knew exactly what to say—as they finished their breakfast. Deciding that he had had enough to eat, David placed his fork on his plate and reached for his tea, mortified to discover as he did so how his hand was shaking. He quickly returned it to his lap and pretended to survey the food choices further, but could tell by the look on Ziva's face that she had noticed. "Special Agent DiNozzo," he said, turning his attention to the younger man. "My daughter and I have some things to discuss. There is a television and DVD collection, albeit one that you may find a bit small, in the den, as well as a collection of newspapers and periodicals in several languages. There is also wireless internet throughout the apartment."

"I'll find something to keep myself entertained," DiNozzo said with a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. David nodded.

"Of that I have no doubt." He turned to his daughter. "Ziva? A walk in the gardens, perhaps?"

A brief flash of anger crossed her eyes. "You should not feel the need to pretend that this is something other than what it is," she snapped. He gave no outward reaction to her words as he rose, thankfully without difficulty, from his chair. She got up to follow, but not before he saw DiNozzo reach out and touch her arm, saying something in a low tone that he didn't hear. Whatever it was, she softened visibly and leaned down to give him a kiss before joining her father in the foyer.


	15. Chapter 15

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 15**

_A/N: I didn't get any writing done yesterday, which I maintain was NOT my fault, so I wasn't going to post. However, I ultimately decided that I was too eager to get this chapter out there to wait for such a silly reason, so let's just hope I don't run out of chapters in reserve until the story is done. _

**

* * *

**Mossad Director Eli David and Mossad Officer Ziva David had been walking through the large gardens less than a block from his apartment complex for almost twenty minutes without speaking, and Ziva was getting tired and frustrated with the exchange—or rather, lack thereof. Instead of saying anything, however, she occupied herself with keeping an eye on her surroundings, making note of the people around them as she identified which were security detail and which were not. "There are five," her father finally said with some amusement. She frowned and did another mental tally.

"I counted six," she replied. He chuckled and shook his head.

"Aaron hardly counts as a member of the security detail," he stated. "He is a capable marksman, but I would not want him on my side in hand-to-hand combat."

"I see," she murmured, fixing the blond agent almost fifty meters away with a cold stare. She didn't know how well Officer Zirwas could see her from his position, but he looked away quickly.

Her game now over, her frustration grew at the situation. "It is a nice day, but I did not fly across the Atlantic to walk through a garden," she snapped. He nodded solemnly but didn't meet her gaze as he finally began speaking.

"I have sacrificed much in my life for my work," he said. "My relationship with you, with Tali, my marriage to your mother." He paused slightly, and she wondered if he was thinking about Ari, but he continued without mention of his illegitimate son. "I was not the father nor husband I should have been, but I justified my actions as service to my country and to the world. I believed, and to some extent, still do, that making this land safer for my children, even just a little bit, will make up for some of that." She didn't miss the heaviness in his voice, and could practically feel his regret at his failure to do that for his youngest daughter. As hard as it had been for her to be a twenty-two-year-old Mossad recruit who had lost a beloved younger sister, she couldn't even begin to imagine the pain of losing a child whose life had not yet fully begun.

"I was only a child when this nation began," he continued, his eyes narrowed in a squint against the sun as they fixed on some unknown point in front of them. "The day after we declared our independence, we were attacked, and were victorious. I remember standing in Jerusalem with my parents, cheering with the others as speeches were made about the triumph of the Zion, of the people of Israel, and I remember feeling such pride at the moment, pride that I did not understand. I was too young to know of the sacrifices of our people, of the millions who had been forced to give their lives needlessly in camps throughout Europe. I was too innocent to know of the political situation we were being dropped into and of the people we were displacing from their homes. All I knew was that I had a nation, a land that was ours and ours alone, and I swore that day that I would never allow anyone to take that from us again."

"You have done a lot, Papa," Ziva said softly. "To have seen Israel from its birth to where we are today, and to have had a part in that, is no small thing."

"Yes," he replied. It was more of a statement of fact than anything else. "I have fought in a war my entire life, in battlefields both defined and implied. I have followed and I have commanded. And I have sacrificed, and every time I think of you I feel the guilt of a man who did not realize what exactly he was giving up."

"You did what you had to," she said. "I understand that." Even as the words were out of her mouth, she doubted them. She knew on an intellectual level why her father had been the man he was and why he had raised her to become the woman she was, but she didn't know if she would ever be able to fully understand, to fully be able to look beyond the pain of a daughter who had been forced to grow up faster than she should, the choices he had made in the course of her life. Without wanting to, her mind drifted back to a bare apartment in Jerusalem, dissembled weapons on the one table, her one intact weapon in her hands and leveled between his eyes as he entered the space to inform her that her sister was dead and he was taking her home to sit _shiva—_and then proceeded to continue her training when they should have been mourning. Her father had always seemed like an automaton in that regard, never allowing himself to feel anything—no pain, no regret, no remorse—and in the course of her lifetime of training, he had made her the same way.

Her father didn't react to her statement as they continued walking. "Despite all that, despite the nights away from home, the missed dinners and dance recitals, the times I took you shopping for weapons instead of dresses, I look around Israel today and realize that I had not done enough. Children are still dying needlessly in coffee shops and taking their dreams of medical school, the hopes and desires of their parents, with them." She stiffened again, knowing he was referring to Tali. "Rockets are still flying, air strikes are still being ordered in retaliation, and the death tolls are still rising on both sides of the conflict. The country I felt such pride in seeing born is still struggling to stand on its legs and gather strength in this world, and now, I know my death will come before I can see that happening." His words, as well as the words he had spoken over the newspaper in the early hours of the morning, were telling her where this was going, and she found herself unable to speak to stop him from saying them, from even shaking her head in the negative to show him that this wasn't the way it should be. Feeling like a bound captive forced to listen to a tormentors demands, she was powerless against him. "There is much I wish I could have done in my life, Ziva, both in my work and in my family, that were never accomplished. I am hoping that you can help me accomplish some of those through my death."

"No." She finally gathered the strength to utter that one word. His gaze turned to her, his expression still blank.

"I have reached peace with the realization that there is not much more of my life," he continued. "I know what the future holds for me. A few more weeks, maybe a few more months, of my body failing me, my mind failing me, until I am no longer able to walk, no longer able to speak, until there is nothing left of me but a useless shell of a man whose life once held great promise. Coming to this decision was not easy, Ziva, you must know that."

"You can _not_ give up," she said emphatically. He smiled sadly.

"My daughter, there is nothing left to give up," he said gently. "It is already over."

"You are still alive," she argued. "Is that not the most important thing of all?"

He chuckled slightly, shaking his head in wonder. "You spent a great deal of time listening to rabbis during that recent mission, Ziva, I can hear it in your words. I never expected you to be the one to argue ethics with me."

"Perhaps this is the first time it has actually made sense," she snapped.

"You are not thinking rationally," he admonished. "If I were anyone but your father—"

"But you _are_ my father," she interrupted. "You are my father, you are my director. Sometimes I can not distinguish between the two, but sometimes, I must."

"Then listen to me as your director," he said firmly. "What I want is for the good of our agency, for our nation, for our _people_." His eyes returned to the gardens in front of them, and again they fell into an uneasy silence. "Your friend, Director Shepard, she did not want to waste away into nothing, to end up remembered not for her life but for her death, and her wish was granted. Her life was ended on her terms, doing good for _her_ people and _her_ agency. Why should my life be any different?"

"Had I known her plans, I would have argued with her just as strongly."

"Of that, I have no doubt," he said, his lips in a tight smile. "You always were so quick with the arguments. Had I been more objective as you were growing up, perhaps I would have encouraged you to a career in law instead of espionage." There was another stretch of uneasy quiet, the silence broken only by the sounds of the city around them. "It is my goal that nobody know that I have been suffering with this disease," he finally said. "My decisions will be questioned and overturned, my opponents will say that it was the dementia of my disease and that I was not a rational man."

"I will not help you commit suicide," she informed him, her voice low. His expression didn't change.

"The plans are already outlined in the top left drawer of the desk in my study," he continued, as if he hadn't heard her. "Hamas will be blamed for the attack, of course—"

"_No_," she said. The word was so emphatic that it finally succeeded in stopping him. "No. I will not have any part in this."

"Ziva, it is what Mossad needs, what Israel needs, what—"

"How can you ask that, Papa, knowing it will start another war? Do you know what it was like for me, to be in Washington and watching my country fight battles on ZNN? To hear the numbers of dead and missing on either side of the conflict in the Gaza Strip? To be an Israeli citizen in those months, standing in a country on the other side of the world and hearing people talk of how Israel was murdering innocent women and children with our air strikes, of responding with excessive force? I will _not_ allow you to send our country down that path again. Killing thousands more will not do us any good, will not win us any friends. We are already on shaky ground with the one real ally we have out there. It is not worth it just to keep your secret safe."

"It is not just about keeping a secret safe—"

"_It will not help Israel_," she repeated slowly and emphatically. "You of all people should be able to see that. If Hamas is blamed, we must retaliate, and they will do the same. It has been an endless cycle of violence for sixty years, and this will only perpetuate it. Do not do this, Papa."

"Things are not as black and white as you make them out to be. You would have realized that four years ago." He paused. "Perhaps some of the others were correct. Perhaps your time in America has made you soft."

"If that is what this is, this desire not to see any further death, than maybe that is not such a bad thing." She blew a stream of air through pursed lips and looked away. She refused to be baited by his implications that she was no longer able to do her job. "Your impending mortality has made you blind," she said, her voice low.

He sighed and nodded slightly. "Perhaps there will be another way."

They walked in silence for several long minutes before she spoke again. "I know there is nothing I can say to make you change your mind about ending your life, not even a plead from a daughter, as I know that is not something that you will take seriously. But I do ask that you not do it this way." She glanced over to see him looking down toward his feet as they walked slowly. "Promise me, Papa."

He finally glanced over, and two pairs of dark eyes locked before he nodded slowly. "I promise."

She learned at an early age never to take the words of a spy seriously, and she knew that those two words were no exception.


	16. Chapter 16

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 16**

_A/N: The downside to visiting my parents while on vacation is that they have all these things planned for while I'm here... a bike ride, hiking in the Cascades... *sigh*. Just kidding. I love my parents and I love being active, but I'm currently working on a chapter (a couple of chapters ahead) that I just can't get to where I want it to be, and right now, I just want to sit here and tear it apart. Later, I'm sure._

_Anyway, I was contemplating not including this chapter, because it doesn't really add anything to the story, but I ultimately decided that it's about time we checked in with Team Gibbs back in DC._

* * *

NCIS Special Agent Tim McGee glanced over at Special Agent Jordyn Sopko before raising the digital camera to his eye and snapping another round of photos at the crime scene. The typically fair, blond probie was looking a little green—and more than just a little lost—as she glanced around at the mess they had been dealing with since sometime around midnight. "You okay, Sopko?" he finally asked.

"I'll be fine," she answered automatically. He saw her gingerly turn toward the most mangled of the bodies before quickly turning away again.

"You sure?"

"Yeah." He heard her take several deep breaths, in through her mouth and out through her nose, probably in efforts of washing away the smell. Murder scenes rarely smelled pretty, but when they involved three petty officers dumped in a, well, dump... He tried not to think about it any more than necessary. He was still surprised at how far he had come since he was the probie on the MCRT more than five years before. If he had seen this scene then, his dinner from last night would have joined the rest of the trash they were currently picking through.

"McGee?" He glanced over at the source of the voice to see Special Agent Kim Tomblin squatting down on a pile of cardboard. The antithesis to Sopko in every way possible—Tomblin was petite, dark-haired, half-Asian, and just about impossible to disgust or disturb, which she attributed to a combination of growing up with three brothers, majoring in forensic science, and a five-year stint as a Marine officer—was sifting through... something McGee couldn't identify, with gloved hands and no tools. "How are we supposed to know what's related to the scene and what's not?"

"Bag all of it." All three agents turned toward the sudden voice of Special Agent Gibbs as he approached over a mount of trash from the office, where he had been interviewing the night manager, who claimed to have no clue how someone could have snuck in and dropped a few bodies without anyone noticing. Judging by the general disrepair of the dump, it wouldn't have been difficult.

"I don't think Abby would appreciate getting a whole dump worth of trash," Tomblin replied, making a face as she pulled a used tampon from the pile. "That's disgusting." Sopko sounded like she was trying not to puke.

"You're supposed to be well-trained in this stuff," Gibbs snapped. "Figure it out!" He stalked off without another word, leaving the two women and McGee staring after him with eyebrows raised.

"How long until DiNozzo and David are supposed to get back, again?" Sopko asked in a small voice. McGee sighed and went back to the photographs.

"Not soon enough."

* * *

The NCIS lab—or, as Abby liked to refer to it as, Labby—was in its usual state: loud music, clean counter-tops, Goth forensic scientist in a white coat dancing around to said loud music. There was something different, however.

"Broom Ziva and Tony are back," McGee commented with a sigh as he placed the last of the evidence boxes from this latest crime scene on the bench. He hated Broom Ziva and Broom Tony, just because they seemed to be a constant reminder to him of how much of a failure he was as a Senior Field Agent; even Abby, his best friend, preferred brooms and pictures of the other two agents to McGee's counsel.

As if sensing his bad mood, Abby rushed over and gave him a tight hug before releasing him and backing away slightly. "McGee," she said sternly. "You smell like a dump."

"That might have something to do with the dump I spent seven hours sifting through," he replied with another sigh. He had changed out of his NCIS jumpsuit and taken a shower when he returned to the building, but wasn't all that surprised to find that the smell had stuck with him.

"Did you bring me anything good?"

"Well, Gibbs seemed to want us to bag everything, but Tomblin didn't think you'd appreciate that," he replied as she began picking through the various clear bags they had stuffed in the boxes. She pulled one out containing what appeared to be a half-eaten, half-rotten apple and frowned.

"And yet she felt the need to give me this?"

He shrugged. "She said maybe it belonged to one of the guys who dumped the bodies," he explained, not really knowing why he felt the need to defend the other agent, a recent transfer from Agent Afloat aboard the _Roosevelt__. _He didn't question Tomblin as much as he did Sopko, because in addition to her forensic science degree and years in the Corps, she had a few years as an NCIS agent under her belt and actually knew the ropes pretty well. Abby hadn't been nearly as impressed, however, which showed as she tossed the apple aside.

"Well, she didn't pay as much attention to her forensic sciences courses at _Eastern Washington University _as she should have, then," she replied. Somehow, she always made that sound derogatory, which made McGee wonder what it was about that school that Abby disliked so much. Or maybe it was just the agent. He tried to think of anything Tomblin could have done that would have offended Abby. He hoped it wasn't because he had asked her out for a round of celebratory drinks after their first solved case. He had asked Sopko, too, but she had begged off, saying that her boyfriend was in town from Florida for the weekend and she wanted to spend time with him. He blinked away the train of thought and forced himself to pay attention to Abby's ramblings. "Because this apple is clearly more decomposed than these bodies. By, like, a week." McGee just shrugged as he took a seat on the stool and watched her continue to sift through the evidence—or just trash, whichever it may have been.

"I can't watch everything they do," he said apologetically.

"But that's your job!" Abby protested, turning toward him with widened eyes. "You're the senior field agent now, Timmy. You're supposed to be watching out for your probies."

"Sopko's a probie," he reminded her. "Tomblin's been an NCIS agent almost as long as I have." She hadn't been an MCRT agent, though—her years with the agency had been spent at the Northwest field office in her home state of Washington and agent afloat-ing. He frowned at that; what self-respecting novelist would go around inventing verbs like that, especially ones that so clearly didn't work?

"Which is why she should know better," Abby replied stubbornly. "If Tony were here—"

"But Tony's _not_here, Abby," he interrupted. He didn't need this constant reminder of how different he was from DiNozzo.

"I _know_ that, McGee." She turned to Broom Tony. "Tony, tell McGee that I know that." Broom Tony continued to grin like an idiot and didn't respond. "See?" she said, turning back to McGee. "Tony agrees with me."

"Abby, Tony's a broom."

"Shh," she hissed. "You'll hurt his feelings."

"Abby..." His voice trailed off and he sighed before he could snap at her and tell her that he couldn't deal with her missing Tony and Ziva, and Gibbs being Gibbs, and Sopko acting like a probie, and Tomblin doing... whatever it was that Tomblin did, all at the same time.

Abby softened, seeming to realize the stress McGee was under. "Ziva says you're doing a good job," she said, her voice small. He gave her a tiny smile of thanks.

"She would say that, wouldn't she?" Abby gave him another hug, this time not complaining about the landfill smell that still clung to him.

"How _were_Tony and Ziva on Thursday when you drove them to the airport?" Abby asked as she pulled away, her tone returning to her usual no-nonsense commands that she gave McGee. "Were they, like, totally weird and fighting the whole time? I can really see that, especially with the way Tony had been acting around here for those few days before they left. I mean, even before he found out this thing about Ziva's dad he had been acting kinda off, not really _mad_, per se, but—"

"They were actually normal," McGee interrupted. He knew from experience that if he didn't stop her in mid-sentence, she'd continue on that train of thought for a very long time. Abby blinked in confusion.

"So, when you say 'normal', you mean 'normal Tony and Ziva', right?"

"No, I mean _normal_. They were a normal yuppie, middle-class, DC-suburb-living couple." She still looked confused, prompting him to continue. "Working out in the morning, getting ready for work, that sort of thing. Ziva cooked _pancakes_for breakfast and they argued over what kind of bacon was in the freezer and little cutesy couple-ish things like that."

"'Cutesy'?" Abby echoed. He waved that aside.

"I'm trying out new adjectives. That one really doesn't work, does it?"

"Not at all. Why are you trying out new adjectives, anyway? Are you writing another book already? _Rock Hollow _has been out for, like, six months. And I thought you said you were done writing novels about NCIS."

"Well, yeah," he admitted. "But—"

"But you miss your Porsche and your Armani wardrobe."

"Yeah," he admitted sheepishly. She shook her head sadly.

"McGee, there are more important things in life than a car and clothes."

"I know, Abby."

"So what is this new book about?" She brightened before giving him the opportunity to continue. "Oh! You can write about a rabbi's wife who goes on a crime spree killing couples who—"

"Abby, that happened in real life. I can't write a novel about it; it wouldn't be fiction."

"Then you can write true-crime," she said, her eyes growing wide with excitement as she thought about it some more. "Think about it! If people like the adventures of a _fictional_ version of Gibbs, don't you think they'd like to read about what the _real-life_ Gibbs could do? And then you can write about how Agent Tommy and Officer Lisa—"

"If it's real life, don't you think it would Agent _Tony_ and Officer _Ziva_?" he asked. "And I really don't think they'd appreciate it if I wrote about how they got together."

"That is a good point," she admitted. "After all, they didn't even like that you wrote about Agent Tommy and Officer Lisa." She opened her mouth to say more, but was interrupted by the sound of an old-fashioned telephone ringing. McGee frowned, trying to place it; of all the sounds he had heard in Abby's lab—Labby—over the years, that was a new one. However, it was clearly one she knew what to do with as she strode over to the computer where her webcam was set up and turned it on. She instantly brightened. "Tony!"

"Hey, Abby." McGee craned his neck in efforts to see around Abby, but she was doing a pretty good job of blocking the monitor. "Is McGoo there with you?"

"Hey, Tony," McGee called out, even though he still couldn't see the other agent. Abby finally did move aside slightly to allow McGee to approach. He wondered where Tony was; all he could see from the background was a skyline. He figured DiNozzo was sitting against a window, as he doubted he was floating in the sky.

"I wasn't sure I'd be able to get a hold of you this early," Tony admitted. "It's 1400 here, so according to Ziva, that would make it 0700?"

"We've actually been in for awhile," McGee informed him. "Well, out, technically. We had a case. Three petty officers dumped at a landfill."

"Dumped at a dump," DiNozzo said with a laugh. McGee figured he was probably just glad he hadn't been there. "Let me guess—Sopko blew chunks all over the scene, Gibbs yelled at her and told her to clean it up, and Tomblin started comparing it to something she had seen while on one of her two deployments to Iraq?"

"Actually, that's about right," McGee admitted. He was a bit surprised that Tony would be able to get that much detail about the team, as he had never worked with either Sopko or Tomblin. Of course, things couldn't be all that exciting on the other side of the divider, and they _were_ pretty loud sometimes...

"Enough about that," Abby interrupted impatiently, all but pushing McGee out of the way. "How's Israel? How was your flight? Were you sandwiched between two people with BMI's greater than 50, because it seems like every time I fly, I always end up between the two largest people on the flight. I mean, it could be worse, because I'm pretty thin, but I am five-ten so I'm not exactly small, and—"

"Actually, Abs, we were in first class," DiNozzo interrupted with a wide grin. Abby's eyes widened before they narrowed and her head started to shake slowly.

"Anthony DiNozzo, that is _so_ not fair. I have _always_wanted to sit first class on an international flight! Did they have those chairs that recline all the way down flat so you're sleeping on a bed? And I bet they gave you real food that actually tasted like food and not plastic display food like the kind you see sitting on the counters of those display kitchens in the furniture stores—." This time, it was Abby who cut herself off, and a frown of concentration crossed her face. "Wait a minute. Why are you calling? Is everything okay? Where's Ziva?"

"Everything's fine," he assured her. "I'm just bored." A dark look passed briefly over his face. "Ziva's been out on a 'walk' with her father for the last," he glanced down, probably consulting his watch off-screen, "four hours. She said they have 'business' to discuss."

"Oh," she said. "Oh." The echo had a touch of realization to it. "'Business' like 'super-secret-spy-Mossad business'? Is he sending her out on a mission? Is she going undercover? But why would he do that if you're there? Unless you're going undercover with her. But he really wouldn't have the authority to order you to do that, would he? I mean, you're a federal agent of a foreign country. Well, Ziva's a federal agent of a foreign country, when she's here, I mean -"

"I don't know what it is," he interrupted darkly. "I'm hoping she tells me when they get back." As a writer, McGee couldn't help but notice the phrasing: 'I'm hoping', not 'she will'. He wondered if everything was as normal between Tony and Ziva as he had previously thought.

"So you've just been lounging around alone in Director David's house for the last four hours?" Abby asked with a frown. Clearly, she wasn't a worried about Tony's words as he was. "Why don't you go out and do something fun?"

"Because it's Saturday in Israel, Abby." It took her a minute, but then the recent lengthy mission involving the Jewish community of DC must have caught up to her and she realized his meaning. Saturday in Israel was like Sunday in America; if there was going to be one day a week that things were closed, it would be that one.

Tony's head turned something off camera, and McGee figured that he had seen or heard something that wasn't picked up by the web cam. "Ziva and Director David are back. I gotta go."

"Tony!" Abby exclaimed before he could end the call. Her voice lowered several decibels, as if sharing a secret. "Is there anything you want me to look into for you? Anything that might cause Ziva to have to go out on an undercover mission?"

He shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, Abs, but I'll take care of it from here." His eyes went from the Goth scientist to McGee. "Probie, keep a watch on Probie Junior and Former-Marine-Captain Probie. And make sure they don't mess up mine and Ziva's desks. We're going to want those back when we come home."

"Sure thing, Tony."

"Bye, Tony!" Abby almost seemed tearful. "Keep in touch, okay! Call us every day! Well, at least every week."

DiNozzo chuckled. "I'll see what I can do."

"And tell Ziva we said that we miss her!"

"Good-bye, Abby." And before she could think of anything else to add, he had turned off the webcam and closed the connection.

McGee could have sworn there were tears in Abby's eyes when she turned to him. "Are they going to be okay, Tim?"

"Abby, everything's going to be just fine." She nodded slowly and leaned over to give him a hug, and again, he had that nagging feeling in his thus-far undeveloped gut that made him just hope that he wasn't lying to her.


	17. Chapter 17

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 17**

_A/N: A future dermatologist I am not. For some reason, I didn't see the problem with the idea of going on a 40 mile bike ride with my father without putting on sunscreen first. I'm now quite sunburnt. *sigh*. Such is life. And on the agenda today: hiking in the Cascades. And yes, I am putting sunscreen on before we leave._

_Anyway, and more relevant, I've been told that Tony is quite angsty in this story, and upon further review, I have to agree with that. Sorry. I blame season 6 for messing with my muse. I'll try to watch more episodes from seasons three and five to better capture some fun banter, but I think the fun Tiva interactions in canon may be forever tarnished for me. Sorry. I'll try to do better (but don't be surprised if I don't deliver). And on that happy note..._

* * *

Tony DiNozzo had just ended his conversation with Abby and McGee when Ziva came into view. "Hi," he greeted, shooting her a wide grin he didn't quite feel. "Are you done with all of your business-discussing for the day, or am I going to have to find some other way to keep myself entertained later so you two can go off and business-discuss some more?"

Instead of answering him directly, she leaned over and kissed him hard enough he was sure his lips would be bruised, closing his laptop as she did so. "Come on," she said somewhat impatiently as they parted.

As they made their way back upstairs to the guestroom, Tony found himself hoping that Director David kept himself in whatever room he retreated to when they returned from their walk. The last thing he needed was for the director of Mossad to come out and see him all over his daughter as they stumbled toward the stairs—or, more accurately, she all over him, and him definitely doing nothing to stop her. They were a tangled mess of hands and feet and frantic kisses, and he wondered how they managed to make it up the stairs without either getting hurt. He realized, somewhat belatedly as her hands were working on his belt after he had kicked closed the door with more force than necessary, that he was being used, but didn't let that thought bother him; Ziva David could use him in any way she saw fit. She would probably be able to convince him to be used as target practice, if she wore the right thing—or nothing—while asking.

After a round of frantic, enthusiastic, and louder than usual sex—Ziva's screaming made him really, really hope the penthouse had decent insulation, or that Director David had left the building, or that the man was feeling merciful and was opting _not_to kill DiNozzo later—Ziva remained curled up at Tony's side, with one of his arms behind her to allow him to play with her hair and the other hand intertwined with hers, playing some sort of finger version of footsie. He dropped a kiss onto a sweat-soaked shoulder before he finally allowed himself to realize everything that was wrong with the situation. Not that he minded sex in the afternoon, but when it was almost-needy sex in the afternoon, during which Ziva seemed to be trying to make sure her father knew what was going on and after which she was reluctant to move away from him, there was something amiss. "How was your walk?" he asked, his voice low. She didn't say anything for a moment, her gaze locked on their intertwined fingers as she seemed to be tracing indecipherable hieroglyphics on his hand.

"Fine," she finally said in a toneless voice. He frowned and sighed.

"Ziva," he said gently. She didn't respond, forcing him to free his hand to turn her face toward his. "You can trust me."

"I know," she said quietly. She pulled away from his touch enough to rest her head on his shoulder. "I am... still thinking. About what my father said." She must have guessed at his concerns, because he felt her head shake slightly in the negative. "It is not a mission, and does not involve you."

"But it involves _you_," he said, "so I want it to involve me. You can talk to me about these things."

"I know," she repeated. She looked up at him and kissed him gently. "And I will, but... I am not yet ready. I am sorry." There was a pause before she quietly added, "Right now, I am just thankful that you are here."

He sighed, knowing that that would be as much as he was going to get at the moment, and went back to just being there.

---

Ziva hated lying to Tony.

Technically, she wasn't really lying to him, just... not telling him the truth, which still felt a lot like lying. Regardless of how she tried to justify it to herself, she knew he didn't deserve that.

He was being uncharacteristically patient with her since he found out her father was dying—and even more so since they left for Israel—and while she appreciated it on one level, another part of her wanted to yell at him and tell him to stop being such a push-under—push-over?—and return to the Tony she knew and loved, the trained investigator who didn't let things go until he got a satisfactory answer, the one who seemed to get bored when things were quiet and would argue for the sake of arguing. This Tony, the one who quietly accepted her monotone responses of being "fine" and let things go after that, seemed a cheap facade of the man who had ignored her demands to keep their last mission strictly professional, who had forced her to tell him what was bothering her when that mission became a little bit too real, who had made her drive him to her Silver Spring apartment—which had seem strange and unfamiliar after so many weeks in the Georgetown condo provided by the Israeli embassy—after they were released from the hospital, where they had made love that evening, for the first time without the context of the 'fake' undercover relationship between them. It had been a somewhat physically awkward experience, with his arm in a cast and her leg in a fracture boot, but it had seemed very _them._ She could remember laughing at his wince after her boot had hit his thigh—hard enough to leave a rather impressive bruise, as they discovered the next morning—and the expression on his face at her laughter had done more to set her mind at ease about their relationship and the feelings involved than any words could have done.

She sighed as she adjusted herself closer to him and felt his lips on the top of her head in response. She wasn't being fair to him, she knew that, but to say what she was thinking... She just wasn't sure if she was ready to do that. She trusted Tony with her life, but she feared that if he knew half of the things that were going on in her head at any given time, he would run screaming for the nearest airport for the first flight as far away from her as possible. She was sure it was from a movie, although she wasn't sure which one, that one woman advised another to only reveal small amounts of the 'crazy' at a time to keep from scaring the boyfriend away.

There was enough crazy in Ziva's life that she doubted she'd ever to get to the end of it, even if she and Tony were together for the rest of their lives. But maybe she should give him a hint of it and take it from there.

"Tony, I—," she started, only to have the ringing of Tony's cell phone interrupt her. She frowned at the offending piece of plastic and electronics as if she had never seen anything like it before.

"What?" he asked. She glanced up at him with a questioning look on her face and gestured toward the phone. He shrugged. "It'll go to voicemail."

Ignoring his unstated request to continue the conversation, she reached for the phone and glanced at the display before handing it over. "It is Gibbs," she informed him. "You should answer it."

"Gibbs knows how to leave a voice message," he argued.

"Actually, Tony, that is doubtful."

He gave a heavy sigh and flipped open the phone. "DiNozzo," he barked. He was quiet for a minute before she heard him respond, "Actually, yeah, Boss, you did. We're on leave, remember?" There was another stretch where Gibbs must have been giving Tony some sort of orders, based on the expression on his face. He did not look pleased as he held out the phone. "He wants to talk to you," he informed her. "Probably thinks he can talk you into it. Channel Nancy Reagan: Just say 'no'."

She frowned as she accepted the device, having no idea what he was talking about. "David," she said into the phone.

_"Grab your gear,"_ Gibbs barked. _"Dead sailor on a training exercise at Ashdod. NCIS field agent in Bahrain is tied up. You and DiNozzo need to go baby-sit the scene until he arrives."_

"You do not need two MCRT agents to baby-sit a crime scene," she pointed up. That was usually a rookie job.

_"Don't have anyone else,"_Gibbs replied. Ziva sighed; it wasn't exactly her choice of Saturday afternoon activities, but when the alternative was explaining to Tony everything that had been going on, maybe going to work was the best thing.

"We will arrive there as soon as we can," she promised him. She avoiding looking at Tony, knowing that he would be wearing an expression of astonishment and annoyance. "Ashdod is nearly fifty kilometers away." With her driving, that shouldn't take too long.

_"Send your reports through the Bahrain field office,"_ Gibbs ordered before hanging up. Again, she refused to meet Tony's gaze as she rolled out of bed.

"You were supposed to say no," he said, irate as he tossed off the covers.

"It will not be a difficult task, Tony," she replied calmly. Knowing how hot it would be outside, she selected a tanktop to go with her usual cargo pants, finishing the ensemble with a simple pair of tennis shoes that had fairly good traction. She didn't know what the situation was with the dead sailor, but figured shoes that wouldn't slip on the deck of a ship or boat would probably be in order. She smirked slightly as she realized that thought process; it hadn't taken her nearly as long as McGee or Palmer to adjust to the conditions of working for a naval agency—the junior field agent and ME's assistance both still had a tendency to wear the wrong shoes at a scene. She attributed that to the fact that neither of which had any experience in espionage. Quickly analyzing the situation and making decisions based on it were necessary in that job.

Less than ten minutes had gone by between Ziva hanging up the phone and the two agents being out the door of the apartment complex, their gear in hand. They would have been ready sooner, but Tony had somehow managed to misplace his NCIS cap, and Ziva couldn't figure out which set of keys to grab for their drive south to Ashdod. When she heard Tony's muttered, "Nice!" when he realized what they'd be driving, she knew she had made the right decision. She barely managed to conceal a grin as she unlocked the door to her father's 1960 Maserati 3500 GTs. She remembered a conversation in a back alley about the spy game not being all about sex and car chases; one would never guess that to be true after a glance at her father's garage. For as different as Tony and her father were, they both certainly liked their cars.

They had been on the road for barely thirty seconds before Tony voiced his first complaints about her driving. "This car does _not_ deserve this abuse," he informed her as she barely missed clipping another car when she decided at the last second to take a left turn from the right lane.

"It can handle it," she replied, this time not bothering to hide her grin. She shifted gears as if to add emphasis and shot him a triumphant look. "My father taught me how to drive in this car."

"You know, that actually explains a lot," he mused thoughtfully. Her smile widened as she slipped her sunglasses over her eyes, swerved around a slow-moving sedan to a blare of horns, and caught Tony grabbing for the edge of the windshield.

The day was looking up already.


	18. Chapter 18

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 18**

_A/N: I didn't think I'd get a chance to update today; the first time I turned on my computer, I was having all sorts of connection problems, which now I blame on my father and his video conferences. I would tell him to stop, but no offense, him doing his job is a bit more important than me making sure my readers are happy :) Anyway, a restart and some words I won't repeat here later, it looks like things are going to work, so here you go. As always, thank you for the reviews, and please keep them coming._

_Oh, and Go Bucks! :) And if anyone counters that with a comment about the Gators... Well, I don't have a good comeback for that at the moment, but I'll think of something ;)_

* * *

It was going to be a long day for NCIS Special Agent Tony DiNozzo.

He should have figured when he woke up to find his trained-assassin girlfriend in a bad mood that it wasn't going to be a great day, and things steadily got worse from there. A stilted breakfast with her father—who just happened to be the director of the scariest intelligence agency in the world, if half of the rumors that surrounded Mossad were to be believed—followed by being abandoned in his ridiculously luxurious penthouse while the two of them 'discussed business', which resulted in a strangely needy and a more violent than usual tumble in the sheets. Then, just when he thought he was going to get her to say something real and honest for once, work calls, and just like always whenever Gibbs was on the other end of a set of orders, off he went, feeling his skin burn under the desert sun as they drove south from Tel Aviv with the top of the convertible down.

He had no idea what would be waiting for them when Ziva swung the Maserati into the parking lot nearest the docks at Ashdod Naval Base, but figured by the group of Navy personnel gathered around the pier leading out to a ship bearing an American flag that that was where they should be heading.

He reluctantly stepped out of the black sports car, already missing the breeze from the convertible as Ziva drove much faster than necessary. "How hot is it, anyway?" he asked casually as he grabbed his backpack from the trunk.

"Not very," Ziva replied as she finished braiding her hair, fixing the long tail up with bobby pins that he hadn't realized she had. He wondered if that was a woman thing or a spy thing, to always have hair tools hidden somewhere. "Maybe thirty-two degrees. It is the humidity that makes it uncomfortable." He was going to ask for a translation to Fahrenheit, but ultimately decided it wasn't that important.

"Uh, excuse me?" Both agents glanced up to find themselves facing a Marine sergeant with the characteristic "MP" armband of a member of the Military Police. The Marine's eyes darted over to the car before returning to DiNozzo. "This is a restricted zone. I'm going to have to ask you to turn around and exit the facilities."

"Actually, we have an invitation to this party," the senior field agent quipped. He pulled out his credentials, allowing his badge and weapon to be seen on his belt as he did so. "Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, NCIS. This is my partner, Officer Ziva David. We understand you have a dead body for us."

The MP nodded and relaxed significantly. "Yes, sir," he replied. "On the _Ramage_. I can escort you aboard." He waited for them to finish gathering their gear before continuing toward the destroyer. "We didn't think the special agent from the Bahrain office was going to be here until after 2400," he said conversationally as they walked.

"We're not from the Bahrain office," DiNozzo replied, flashing his credentials again to another MP as they stepped onto the _USS Ramage_. "We're with the MCRT at headquarters in DC."

The sergeant stopped and frowned. "You're a long way from home, sir."

"No kidding," DiNozzo scoffed. He wondered what he had been thinking when he decided to grab one of the international SIM cards for his phone from the IT people. Gibbs' rule three had gotten him nothing but trouble. "Vacation."

The MP's eyes went from DiNozzo to Ziva and back again, a slight smirk on his face. "You always vacation with your partner, sir?" Neither bothered to respond as they stepped into the temporary officer quarters the sergeant led them to.

There was a lieutenant crouching over a scrubs-clad female body when DiNozzo and Ziva entered. He looked up with a frown. "Can I help you with something?" he asked.

"Actually, we were hoping _you_ could help _us_," DiNozzo replied. He again flipped out his credentials. "NCIS. Who are you?"

"Dr. Jason Kamen," he replied. "I'm the physician aboard the _Ramage_. I was assessing the body."

"You a medical examiner?"

"No, sir," Dr. Kamen replied. "I'm a GMO—general medical officer. But I'm following the guidelines on initial death scene evaluation exactly." He gestured toward an open textbook and document on a nearby laptop. "I've taken a liver temperature and the temperature of the surrounding atmosphere—"

"Did you move the body?" DiNozzo interrupted. Just what he needed: some green physician who thought he knew more than he really did.

"No, sir," the doctor replied, shaking his head emphatically. "She was already positioned this way. I took pictures before I moved anything to get a liver temperature. My camera's right there." He pointed to a rather impressive-looking Nikon. Guessing the reason behind DiNozzo's expression, he confessed, "Shipping-out present from my wife. I like photography, and she figured if the Navy's going to be sending me around the world, I should document everything I see. You know, something to show the grandkids someday when they ask what I did with the Navy." He straightened and returned to the point. "You can take the data card, but the camera stays with me. And yes, I did use gloves before I touched anything." He held up his hands, now purple with the gloves he wore. "What do you need to know?"

"Let's start with who we're dealing with."

Dr. Kamen nodded. "Dr. Pamela Bescan, US Navy lieutenant. She was the primary physician for EODMU4. Uh, that's Explosive Ordinance Disposal Mobile Unit 4, based out of Bahrain. They were tagging along with us for this training exercise with the Israeli Navy. She's a dive surgeon, but unlike a lot of Navy Undersea Medical Officers, she was actually board-certified in Undersea and Hyperbaric Medicine. Uh, she did a residency in emergency medicine and then a fellowship—"

"Lieutenant," DiNozzo interrupted. "I don't need her whole resume."

"Sorry, sir. And, technically, sir, it's 'Doctor', not 'Lieutenant'. The proper address for a junior medical officer—lieutenants and lieutenant commanders—is by title, and for senior medical officers—commanders, captains, and admirals—it's by rank. So it's _Dr._ Kamen, not _Lt._ Kamen." He blushed slightly. "And you really don't care."

"Not really," DiNozzo agreed.

"Sorry, sir. Uh, the EOD's diving officer was the one who found her. She was supposed to be in sickbay at 1400 local for final medical clearance before their dive at 1600. When she didn't show by 1415, he came looking for her and found this." He gestured toward the body then shrugged. "And then I was called. I pronounced her dead, we called NCIS-Bahrain, and they gave us the okay to do a prelim evaluation until they arrived. Uh, I guess that's you, isn't it?"

"Kinda," he said. No use explaining it again. "We're going to need to speak to the diving officer and anyone else who might have had any problems with _Dr._ Bescan." Kamen blushed again at the emphasis DiNozzo put on the dead doctor's title. "Names?"

"Uh, I didn't know Dr. Bescan very well, sir," Dr. Kamen confessed. "When she came aboard, we had dinner in the officer's mess, you know, just to swap war stories. Not really 'war' stories, I guess, just tales of medical training and laughing about things we've seen. It's kinda something that happens whenever two docs come across each other. But, uh, the diving officer is Lt. Daniel Christian. I think I heard one of the MPs saying that they have him and the rest of the MU sequestered in a ward room."

"Great," DiNozzo muttered. "Never put suspects together. Okay. Thanks, Doc. Ziva, do you want to take the scene or talk to the team?"

"We are only supposed to be sitting on the scene, Tony, not working it," she reminded him. He shrugged.

"You heard the sergeant; it's going to be at least midnight before the agent from the Bahrain office shows. Might as well make ourselves useful."

She looked less than convinced. "I will take the scene," she finally said, "and leave you to question the suspects. I am not feeling particularly patient with people right now."

"And that's so different than usual," he joked. He gave her a grin as she turned her NCIS cap backwards and reached for the camera. It was something he always did when he was taking photos; he wondered how long she had been copying that and if she even realized she was doing it.

He didn't learn much from the EOD diving team—they all liked and respected Dr. Bescan, thought she was a great dive surgeon and even better diver. From what they were saying, she barely breathed underwater, which apparently was a good thing. None of them knew anything about why she was dead or who could have killed her. Lt. Christian looked a little anxious about getting out of there; DiNozzo filed that bit of information away and made a mental note to talk to the diving officer alone after finding out what Ziva had learned.

He found his partner still in the officer quarters, scrawling her signature on an evidence bag after sealing it. "What've you got?" he asked without preamble. She turned to him and cocked an eyebrow.

"You are channeling Gibbs," she stated flatly. He just rolled his eyes and waited for her to continue. Placing the bag in a pile of similar bags, she got to the point. "I am no Ducky, but I would say the cause of death is probably the large blow she had to the back of the head." She gestured toward the body and the large pool of blood behind the victim's head. "And I would guess that this was the murder weapon." She pulled an evidence bag from the pile and held it up, revealing a metal pipe. DiNozzo raised his eyebrows at that as he nodded to a taller-than-usual young ensign, taking over the task of standing guard.

"Ensign Todd Arthur, sir," the young officer said. DiNozzo nodded.

"Special Agent Tony DiNozzo; my partner, Mossad Officer Ziva David," he introduced.

"Mossad?" the ensign echoed, his eyes going wide. "I wasn't briefed on any Israeli involvement, sir. Or is this a terrorism thing?" He glanced over at the body before quickly glancing away. Tony smirked.

"Calm down, Sparky. She works for us." He returned his attention to his partner. "I don't know what you're thinking, but this looks like it could have been Colonel Mustard—"

"In the bedroom with a lead pipe?" she finished. He blinked in surprise.

"You've played _Clue_?" he asked. "What is that, required Mossad child-rearing techniques, along with Baby's-First-Uzi?"

"Do not be ridiculous, Tony," she scoffed. "The Uzi has too much kick. I was not large enough to handle that until I was at least ten." He grinned, as much at the words as the look on Ensign Arthur's face; he missed working a scene with Ziva. He missed working scenes, period. He spent far too much time working cold cases and minor crimes. "But also, in my version of the game, it was not Colonel Mustard," she continued. "It was _Aluf Mishneh_ Tzahov, which would actually be Colonel Yellow, not Colonel Mustard."

"But this is the Navy," DiNozzo picked up, still grinning. "So it would be Captain Mustard."

"Ah, yes, unless Colonel Mustard is actually _Lieutenant_ Colonel Mustard," Ziva countered. "In which case, it would be _Commander_ Mustard. But then the Hebrew version would have been _Sgan Aluf_, not _Aluf Mishneh_."

"So we're looking for Captain Mustard," Tony concluded. "I'll put out a BOLO." She chuckled and crouched down by the body.

"There is another thing I thought you would want to see," she told him. She lifted the blue scrub top to reveal a red tee-shirt with gray letters underneath. "It appears I cannot escape Ohio State even in Israel." He grinned as she replaced the top shirt over the Ohio State Medicine tee. "I am wondering—did all Navy physicians graduate from Ohio State?" They had met Dr. Jake Sault, now a psychiatry intern at National Naval Medical Center, the spring before, when he was still a fourth-year medical student at The Ohio State University College of Medicine and his sister's boyfriend had been murdered by Mrs. Hedia Grossman in a psychotic quest to save Jewish singles from marrying non-Jews.

"Only the good ones, ma'am," Ensign Arthur chimed in. They both turned to him, eyebrows raised. "Sorry, ma'am, sir. I graduated from OSU spring quarter of '08."

"Really?" Tony asked with a grin even as he was wincing about how old he suddenly felt. '08? Seriously?

"You _will not_ talk about football," Ziva admonished.

"Actually, ma'am, I was a basketball player," Arthur said.

"That is even worse," Ziva said with a sigh.

"So what's Matta like to work with?" Tony asked, jumping right in and ignoring her. "Doesn't look like a bad coach, but there were a few things I would have done differently."

"He's a pretty cool guy," Arthur replied with a small nod. "He's a fair coach. You played, sir?"

Tony pointed at his gray tee-shirt, printed with 'OSU Basketball' in scarlet. "Graduated in '93."

"You made it to Final Four. Didn't get as far as we did, though."

Tony gave a sarcastic smile. "At least we didn't lose to Florida after the football team did the same thing earlier in the year."

"Yeah, '06-'07 was not a good season for OSU sports."

"Can we get back to the case?" Ziva asked loudly.

"She's Israeli. They don't really understand."

"Basketball is a popular sport in Israel, Tony. I just think there are other things we could be doing right now. Such as dealing with the dead body in the middle of the room."

"I thought we were only supposed to be baby-sitting it?" DiNozzo asked teasingly. Ziva rolled her eyes but didn't respond. "Might as well make yourself comfortable, Sweetchecks. You heard the MP; it's going to be at least midnight before the special agent arrives from Bahrain. Now, Ensign, let's talk about what went wrong against the Gators."


	19. Chapter 19

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 19**

* * *

Several hours after arriving to the _USS Ramage_, Tony DiNozzo was still sitting on one of the few pieces of furniture in the short-term officer quarters—the footlocker—and still reminiscing about his days as a Buckeye with Ensign Todd Arthur. After initially pretending that the body of Dr. Pamela Bescan wasn't lying in the middle of the room, they finally determined that it wouldn't be too long before it really started stinking. They glanced through the pictures Dr. Kamen had taken on his camera before deciding that those, in addition to the ones Ziva had taken, would be sufficient, and had Dr. Kamen transfer Dr. Bescan to some unknown location. They just hoped the young physician didn't displace it; that would be a bit difficult to explain to the NCIS-Bahrain special agent when he arrived to collect it and the evidence.

"You let yourself get spoiled with the new gym and the Schott," DiNozzo was saying. Ziva had fallen asleep on his shoulder, with his arm draped loosely around her waist, an hour or so before, and was now snoring at her regular volume. Ensign Arthur kept glancing over at her with a concerned expression, probably wondering how such sounds could come from a woman her size, but didn't comment. "We only had the French Field House and the Jesse Owens gyms, although JO-South definitely had its advantages. I lived on South Campus before I pledged, and there is just no end to the parade of hot and sweaty co-eds coming from that building."

Arthur chuckled and nodded slightly. "That certainly hasn't changed, sir. What'd you pledge?"

"Alpha Chi Delta. You in a frat?"

The younger man shook his head. "Too busy with NROTC and basketball. Alpha Chi Delta… that's on East Fifteenth, right? Was that area as much a ghetto then as it is now?"

"Well, I doubt you're ever going to find anything nice east of High," DiNozzo said with a chuckle. "I lived in the house for two years, and every day I was afraid to park my Mustang there. It wasn't until after I moved into an apartment junior year that anybody touched it, though." He winced. "Keyed up the whole driver's side. Had to get it repainted, but red was too cliché for a Mustang, anyway."

"Good school spirit, though, sir."

DiNozzo chuckled and was about to respond when they heard a light tap on the door before it swung open. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything," the blond man in an NCIS tee-shirt commented. "Sorry about the delay. My anti-terrorism operation went quite a few hours longer than anticipated." He blinked a few times and frowned at DiNozzo. "DiNozzo?" he asked tentatively.

DiNozzo also frowned, trying to place where he had seen the man before. He brightened as it came to him. "Stan Burley," he replied. "You're a hell of a long way away from the _Enterprise_."

The former Agent Afloat of the _USS Enterprise_ grinned. "That was a few assignments ago. I'm the SAC of the Bahrain field office now." He paused. "This isn't exactly close to the MCRT, either. You still working for Gibbs, or have you seen the light and moved on?"

"Oh, no, I'm still there," DiNozzo replied quickly.

"So what brings you to Israel?" Burley asked as he shrugged his field gear off to the floor. His eyes briefly traveled to Ziva and he frowned slightly before returning his attention to DiNozzo.

"Oh. Vacation." He poked Ziva in the side to wake her. "Wasn't planning on being called into work while I was here, though. Wake up, Sweetcheeks. Bahrain is here."

"Bahrain is an entire country, Tony," she replied, her eyes still closed. "I doubt it has traveled to Israel."

"Well, the SAC in the field office has." He returned his attention to Burley. "My partner, Officer Ziva David. She's still jet-lagged, but she's going to deny it."

"My legs are fine, Tony," she countered before opening her eyes and consulting her watch. "I am sleeping because it is 0400."

"Officer?" Burley asked.

"Mossad," Ziva answered.

"Ah." He frowned. "I thought I was aware of all cases with terrorism ties in CENTCOM."

"Actually, she's part of the MCRT," Tony chimed in. "Liaison position."

"Ah," Burley repeated before pausing. "Let me guess… Also on vacation?"

"Well, it _is_ her country."

"I thought vacationing in Israel in August was a little odd, but I figured that was just the only time Gibbs would give you off. Actually, I was impressed he gave you time off." He paused again. "You always vacation with your partner?"

"You know, Stan, you're not the first person in the last twelve hours to ask that," DiNozzo commented. "You want to hear about the case?"

Probably figuring he wasn't going to get any more information from DiNozzo or David about their presence at his crime scene, Burley nodded. "Is it true that the vic is Dr. Pamela Bescan?"

"You know her?"

"In a manner of speaking," the Bahrain SAC replied with a frown. "She's currently under investigation. She's the Underseas Medical Officer with the EOD in Bahrain. Her dive lieutenant brought it to NCIS's attention that she's sleeping with the dive chief."

"You're working up a fraternization case?" DiNozzo asked, shaking his head sadly. "There really isn't much to do in Bahrain, is there? And is it still fraternization when the officer is a doc? It's not as if she's in his chain of command."

"Actually, it's _because_ she's the dive doc," Burley answered after grinning to acknowledge the dig. "The dive officer, Lt. Christian, is claiming that she's giving Chief Moore preferential treatment."

"Lt. Daniel Christian and Chief Charles Moore?"

"That's right. You talked to them?"

DiNozzo nodded. "Just a prelim interview. It's recorded; I'll get you the tape. I separated them and the rest of the EOD crew and sequestered them on the ship without access to phones or internet after that. Lt. Christian seemed pretty nervous about something. I don't remember the chief giving much reaction at all." He paused. "So the lieutenant is upset about an illicit affair, the chief might have something to hide… Interesting set of motives. This is more like _Clue_ than I thought." Ziva snorted. Burley just looked confused.

"_Clue_?" he asked.

"Long story. Ziva, you want to fill Burley in on the physical evidence?" She nodded as she stepped off the footlocker and crossed the small space to the pile of evidence bags.

An hour and a half later, after they finished filling Burley in on everything they knew and signed over all the evidence, Ziva wandered off to find the head, leaving DiNozzo and Burley to organize the transfer of the body to the waiting morgue transport vehicle. "So what's the Bahrain field office like?" DiNozzo asked casually.

"Thinking of getting away from Gibbs after all these years?" Burley joked. DiNozzo snorted.

"Can you blame me?"

"There are easier ways than getting yourself sent to the Middle East."

"I tried floating, but it didn't take. Never got my sea legs."

Burley grinned. "I'm guessing it wasn't the seasickness that made you want to return to DC. So why _are_ you vacationing in Israel? Meeting the girlfriend's family?"

"Something like that," DiNozzo acknowledged.

"If you got so much good going on in DC, what's with the question about Bahrain?"

"Ziva's Mossad," he reminded the other agent. "I figure they're not going to let her hang out in the States forever, and Bahrain is a hell of a lot closer to Israel than DC is."

Burley nodded slightly. "It's pretty serious, then?"

"Some days more than others."

"Gibbs is okay with that? Doesn't he have rules?"

DiNozzo grinned. "You saying you always followed all of Gibbs' rules, without exception?"

"Yes," the blond man replied automatically. "I was scared to hell not to! I'm telling you, the stress of working for Gibbs for those five years took at least ten off my life." DiNozzo chuckled, and the expression on Burley's face became thoughtful as he considered DiNozzo's previous question. "Bahrain isn't a bad posting," he finally said, "once you get over the fact that you're stuck in the middle of a desert surrounded by people who probably wouldn't hesitate to kill you, but hell, you're working for Gibbs, it's not too unlike that. It's a different type of work than the MCRT, much different than floating. Most of what we do is focused on anti-terrorism; we actually work with Mossad quite a bit on that, they have an officer in our building and everything. I just don't work with Officer Samuel Kirsch the same way you work with your Mossad officer." He gave DiNozzo a quick grin to let him know he was joking. "I just took the posting, so I still have a few years to go before there'll be an opening. You have a foreign language?"

"Spanish," DiNozzo replied, wincing slightly. For as useful as it was while working in the States, it probably wouldn't help much in the Middle East. "And some Italian. Enough to qualify."

"Try to pick up a bit of Arabic if you're serious about Bahrain, do some reading on Al Qaeda and the Taliban and anyone else who might have money and a following in the area. And let them know that you're not just a one-trick pony. How long has it been with the MCRT? Eight years now? The problem with being irreplaceable is that you're also unpromotable."

"Thanks, Stan," DiNozzo said in response to the advice. He shot Ziva a quick grin as she reentered the quarters. "I'll keep that in mind."

"See that you do. Hey, it's getting close to 0600 and I'm sure you guys have given up quite a lot of your vacation time to baby-sit my scene. Let me thank you by taking you out for breakfast. And I'm not talking about whatever they're serving in the _Ramage_'s mess." He hitched his bag back onto his shoulder and grabbed the box containing the evidence bags before they made their way off the ship. "You know of any place with decent food around here, Officer David?"

"I might have some ideas," she said with a small smile Tony couldn't quite interpret. He wondered if she had done a mission in Ashdod and was temporarily distracted by images of her dressed like a Bond girl and holding a big gun. Of course, being Ziva, she could do more damage with her bare hands than the average Bond girl could do with a big gun.

"Great. Do you want me to follow you, or should I grab a ride in your car?"

"You should probably follow," DiNozzo said as they walked out to the parking lot. He gestured toward the Maserati. "Our ride doesn't have a backseat."

Burley gave a low whistle at the pristine sports car. "How'd you get your hands on that?" he asked in wonder.

"You know what they say about the spy game? That it's all sex and fast cars?" DiNozzo grinned. Ziva rolled her eyes as she unlocked the driver's side door. "Turns out, they were right."


	20. Chapter 20

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 20**

_A/N: Wow, thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed (and reviewed) "Homecoming". I have never had that kind of response to a story/chapter before, which makes me think I need to change my writing style and start writing more stories like that one. I'm very glad that so many people liked it._

_I think I broke my toe. No, seriously--it's killing me. The pain woke me up from sleep multiple times (which is why I slept in). We were taught that "pain that wakes from sleep" is a bad thing, but whatever. It's a toe. I might still go running today. I haven't decided yet. I really don't know why I just wrote that._

_Anyway, time to get back to the story. To bring you up to speed after that long (one day) hiatus, Tony and Ziva just left a crime scene on a ship at Ashdod. And now here they go._

* * *

Ziva David let out a low curse in Hebrew as she expertly down-shifted the Maserati when she was forced to decelerate to avoid hitting a car that insisted on going the speed limit when traffic was otherwise moving. If they couldn't handle driving the way they should, they shouldn't drive at all. In her opinion, far too many people were given driver's licenses.

"That was actually fun," Tony said thoughtfully out-of-the-blue. She glanced over at him to see him leaning his head back against the headrest, his face exposed to the sun and his eyes closed under the sunglasses. She wondered what he was trying to prove; he was already rather sunburnt from the drive south the day before.

"Breakfast with Agent Burley?" Ziva asked, trying to follow his train of thought. Easier said than done; sometimes she wondered if he _had_ a train of thought.

"Well, yeah," he admitted. "But I was talking about working the scene, talking to suspects...the whole bit."

"You miss your role as the senior field agent," she stated.

"Yeah." His tone was almost wistful, and she bit back a reminder that he would be back there soon enough. She figured this was just his usual need to fill the silence with the sound of his own voice. "But what I miss more is working with you on something." She looked over surprise to see him looking at back at her. The relaxed expression from a few seconds ago was gone and replaced with something intense that she couldn't quite interpret. "Watch the road," he admonished.

"It has only been six weeks since we worked together," she reminded him. "And you had still hopped ideas off me in that time."

"Bounced," he corrected. "You've been in Israel three days. Stop reverting. And it's been a lot longer than six weeks since we worked a scene together. The last one was—"

"Lt. Shaw's murder," she finished for him. The start of the undercover mission that brought them together. He had joked about chick cars; she had been distracted about the anniversary of her sister's death.

"Yeah." Again, his voice sounded heavier than she was accustomed to from him, and she again turned questioningly toward him. "Why is it that we're only happy when we're working or annoying each other? Or while annoying each other while working?"

She blinked at the sudden serious turn of the conversation. "You did not seem unhappy the other night," she finally said, hoping to let him know with her joking response that she wasn't in the mood for this conversation. Deciding that getting the drive over with faster was probably the only way to avoid it, she again shifted and jerked the car into the other lane, a move accompanied by the blast of a horn somewhere behind her.

"Ha. Nice try, Ziva, but you're not going to distract me by making me think about sex or fear for my life with your driving. I'm onto you."

"You certainly were the other night." She turned to see a decidedly unamused expression on his face and sighed. "While working is not the only time that I am happy," she finally said.

"Well, not you, personally, but you, me, _us_, as a couple. Maybe it's because we've been coworkers a hell of a lot longer than lovers, but it still seems a bit screwed-up to me."

"Are you saying that I am screwed-up?"

"Yes," he replied bluntly, "but probably not any more than I am." He sighed, and she could see him rubbing his face out of her peripheral vision. She wondered if it was the lack of sleep during the night that was making him talk about things they usually chose not to acknowledge. "We don't trust each other like we should." This time, she was genuinely surprised, and nearly jerked the wheel to the right as she swung her head quickly to face Tony. "Watch the traffic," he reminded her.

"I do trust you," she told him, ignoring his implied comment about the quality of her driving. "I trust you with my life, Tony."

"No, you trust me with your health," he corrected. She frowned, wondering what he was getting at. "You trust me to watch your six. You trust me enough to give me a key to your apartment and let me know where you keep your guns hidden and join you on your runs and bike rides, but you don't trust me with your _life_. You don't tell me anything about you. You never say what's bothering you or what's on your mind, and even after working with you for four years and sleeping with you for four months, I can't figure it out." He gave a frustrated sigh. "You know _everything _about me, Ziva. You know how I did in elementary school and how many points I scored against Purdue my junior year and you probably personally vetted the anesthesiologist for my last surgery, and I know _none_ of those things about you. We're staying in your father's _home_and I'm no closer to figuring out how you grew up. I know you had an older half-brother and a younger sister and that you spent three years in the IDF before leaving for Mossad training, but that's it. When the hell are you planning on letting me in? _Ever?_"

For once, she kept her eyes on the road, her face set in a blank expression as she considered his words. As her father had told her growing up, you can never completely know another person, and she had been raised to never expect otherwise. Her own father was a mystery to her the majority of the time, and it couldn't have been unexpected that she would turn out the same way.

_And look at what that's done for you_. She blinked at the sudden nagging internal voice, and spying a familiar exit on the freeway, made a split-second decision, not even bothering with the turn signal as she barreled across the lanes toward it, a chorus of blaring horns following her. "What the hell?" Tony demanded angrily, his hand clenched on the frame of the windshield as if expecting that to protect him in case of a crash. "I want you to talk to me, not kill me!" She didn't respond at the Maserati continued, now weaving through a quiet residential area of Tel Aviv.

Neither spoke again until after she had parked the car on an unassuming street of low brick townhouses surrounding a courtyard. She wondered if Tony recognized it from the picture she had in her Georgetown condo, the one of her in her IDF uniform sitting on the concrete steps with Tali. She turned off the ignition and palmed the keys before hazarding a glance over at her partner, who was still wearing a bewildered expression. Without explanation, she unbuckled before opening her door and stepping out of the vehicle. Tony followed suit, remaining just as quiet.

Her tennis shoes didn't make a sound as she walked along the sidewalk toward a swing set and play structure in the courtyard. "This was where I grew up," she finally said. She didn't have to look over at Tony to know that he would be wearing an astonished look on his face. She pointed to a building. "Over there, apartment 204. Shmuel Rubenstein lived in that building," she said, pointing to another.

"The boy you hit when you were eight because he said he liked you?" Tony asked, confused. She smiled slightly when she nodded.

"That took place right there," she said, pointing to an area of grass near the play things. "My mother was inside with Tali and did not see it, but she heard about it from Mrs. Rubenstein, and she was not pleased, to say the least. I was not allowed outside to play for a week."

"You were grounded," he observed, sounding amused.

"Yes, I guess that would be the term," she agreed. She lapsed into silence again as she walked over to the swing set. She sat down but didn't swing, keeping her feet on the ground as she rocked back and forth slightly. "There were three bedrooms in the apartment," she continued. "But my father had used one for a study. For the first two years, Tali slept in my parents' room before they decided she should go to my bedroom. I was very angry with that decision. I was eight years old and did not want to share a room with my two-year-old sister."

"What about Ari?" Tony asked, taking the swing next to her. She shook her head.

"Ari did not enter the picture until much later," she informed him. She glanced up, her eyes scanning the courtyard. "My primary school was a kilometer that way," she said, pointing. "There were many children in the neighborhood. We all walked to school together. When we came home, our mothers would be here, many with our younger siblings, and we would play until it was time to come in for dinner."

"It seems so... normal," he said when she again lapsed into silence.

"It was normal," she said with a nod, turning to face him. "Two children, father worked for the government, mother was a teacher...there were hundreds of families in Tel Aviv exactly like us."

"Not exactly," he commented.

"No," she agreed. "Not exactly." She remembered driving out to the desert with her father to practice shooting, stern lectures about performances at school and expectations for her future. She remembered scanning the crowds at piano recitals and dance recitals, looking for the father who had promised to come. She had gotten so accustomed to his excuses of something coming up at work that by ten she had stopped asking him why he wasn't there. By the time she was twelve, she had stopped asking him to come.

The thought brought unexpected tears to her eyes, and she quickly put thoughts of her father out of her head, knowing that thinking of the father he had been would only lead to thoughts of the father he now was and his request of her. In efforts to get her mind on something else, her eyes fell on a dark-haired girl running and laughing, and she started thinking about another small dark-haired girl. "I did not want a younger sister," she said quietly. She could see Tony frown at the change in topic and saw his eyes follow hers to the small girl. "When my parents told me that I would have a little brother or sister, I did not understand at first, and then I thought it would be something new to play with, like a puppy. When Tali was born, I realized that she was not a doll that I could dress up, but was something that took my mother's attention and her time and left her tired and cranky." She again lapsed into silence, remembering a six-year-old version of herself and a temper tantrum that she still was not proud of in the marketplace.

"What was she like?" Tony asked in a low voice.

"Tali?" She smiled slightly as she remembered her younger sister, forever sixteen years old. "Tali was the daughter my mother wanted. She liked to do her hair and put on makeup and play with dolls." A glance over at Tony revealed an almost amused expression on his face. "I did none of those things," she quickly said.

"I never would have accused you of such things," he joked. She smiled thinly before continuing.

"On the surface, Tali was quiet and kind, but she used that to hide a mischievous streak. She was smart, imaginative, and quick-witted, and could come up with an excuse for everything, so she was never in trouble." She glanced down at the toes of her shoes as she dragged a line through the sand under the swing. "She wanted to be like me," she continued, her voice a bit lower. "She took dance lessons because I took dance lessons. She wanted to learn the piano because I played the piano."

"Was she as good as you?"

She couldn't stop the small, triumphant smile from crossing her lips. "No," she confided. "She was a perfectionist and would become nervous about making mistakes and could never play confidently. And the more nervous she got, the more mistakes she would make." She could still remember more than one piano recital that resulted in Tali going home in tears and abruptly changed the subject again. "We both attended Gymnasia Herzliya, the oldest secondary school in Tel Aviv. The current mayor is a former principal and alumnus. There was a coffee shop a few blocks from the school. I spent time there with my friends when I was in secondary school, and when Tali matriculated there, she began studying there as well. That is where she was when a suicide bomber walked in." This time, she couldn't stop the stray tear that escaped from her eye, and despite quickly wiping it away, she knew that Tony had seen it.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice low. She nodded to acknowledge his words.

"I was in Mossad training at the time," she continued, "and my father came to Jerusalem to give me the news and take me home." She found herself unwilling to continue that story, to tell him of the time spent training away from her mother's eyes. "My father—." She stopped abruptly, suddenly choked up, and the words that came tumbling out of her mouth were not the ones she intended to say. "The business that I had to discuss with my father, it is not what you think. It is not a mission, nor an order to return to Israel. He wants me to help him kill himself." This time, she made no effort to stop the tears as the streamed down her cheeks. Tony rose from his swing and squatted down in front of hers, but didn't force her eye contact. "He says that it is not unlike Jen, how she wanted to die on her own terms, finishing business she had to finish. He has this all planned out and his plans will leave Hamas responsible for his death and will send Israel down the path to another war." She finally met Tony's eyes to find his filled with surprise and concern, and she shook her head at his unasked question. "I could not do it. I can not do it. I will not do anything that will cause another war, not for one man's selfish wish to die without anyone knowing that he is dying. I can not do this, Tony. He is my father and my director and I can not do this." Her breath was now coming out in sobs, everything she had been feeling since she found out that her father was dying more than a year ago coming out at once. She was barely aware of Tony pulling her from the swing to her feet, of his arms around her as he held her close, of the barely-comprehensible words of comfort that were coming from his mouth as she sobbed into his shoulder and finally allowed herself to completely trust another person for the first time in her life.

* * *

_A/N: So I know it's now established in canon that Ari grew up with Ziva and Tali, but before that was revealed, I had had my assumptions about the David family dynamic, which is different than canon. I decided I liked mine better, so I'm sticking with it. There will be more about Ari and Director David later in the story, which fully explains what had previously been my theories on that topic._


	21. Chapter 21

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 21**

* * *

Tony DiNozzo had seen Ziva David cry before: a stray tear wiped away in a fit of frustration, the wet tracks down her cheeks that she hadn't bothered to hide before turning away from his gaze upon hearing Gibbs tell Amanda Lee that her sister wasn't going to be coming back. But this was different. This wasn't a frustrated Ziva, it wasn't a sympathetic Ziva, it was a truly broken Ziva, and for the first time, he saw just how accurate his previous announcement of her being screwed up was, and before he could stop himself, he found himself angrily hating everyone in her past who had contributed to her being this person.

Earlier, in the car, when he was baiting Ziva with the words that he knew she would attribute to his fatigue, he had never expected this to happen. He had fully expected her to clam up, just like she did every time, and for them to continue onto her father's penthouse in angry silence. From there, there were two possible endings to that scenario: either he would head up to the guestroom to fall into a troubled sleep while she went and cleaned a handgun or beat the hell out of some exercise equipment or fired a weapon or something equally violent, or they would end up together on that large bed for some anger-fueled sex that would not resolve anything and leave them both feeling slightly worse than they had before.

He hadn't seen Door Number Three until she swung it open, revealing the childhood that he knew on an intellectual level she must have had, but couldn't for the life of him imagine, and found himself sitting on a swing in the already-oppressive heat of the early morning, watching a dark-haired girl as she ran around the park under the watchful eye of her mother, who was also gently pushing a stroller containing a child of less than a year back and forth. He imagined the scene as it would have been some twenty-five years before, when that dark-haired girl was the daughter of a Mossad officer and his Russian-born wife. He wondered what had she been thinking about. Did she ever imagine that she would return there someday after entering a life of a espionage and state-sponsored assassinations, of tracking down terrorists and murderers alike, sitting on that swing and talking about playing in that courtyard with a man she had once professed to love when he had been sitting on a hard floor with a gunshot though his arm?

He had caught the change in her voice even before her words had abruptly skipped more than a decade to bring up a conversation that had happened less than twenty-four hours before, and knew that his actions in the next few minutes would determine the entire course of their relationship. He hadn't needed to think about it as he slid off his swing and crouched before her, his hand resting on her thigh, waiting for her to look at him and realize that there wasn't anything she couldn't trust him with. When she had finally turned her gaze to his, when he had seen exactly the depths of the pain in those dark eyes, he was hit with a sudden desire that would have been laughable if it hadn't been so true: he wanted to protect her, the trained assassin who had taken down a group of armed Marines in efforts to protect _him_, who had more than once knocked him flat on his ass in the gym, who wanted everyone to think that she was so damned unbreakable that they shouldn't bother trying to break her.

No, they shouldn't try to break her. She was already broken.

She was sobbing into his shoulder, the cotton of his gray OSU Basketball tee-shirt clenched in her fists at his back, and by some strange twist of fate, it was up to Anthony DiNozzo to try to make someone feel better. He held her close, his hand rubbing her back in a way that he hoped was comforting as he murmured words that even he didn't understand into her ear.

He didn't know how long they had stood there in the unrelenting sun of the playground before her sobs began to subside, her fists beginning to relax. Even after the tears had stopped, they remained unmoving, not unlike some strange statue placed there in the courtyard. "Tony," she finally murmured.

"Yeah?"

She pulled back just enough for him to see the depth of emotions in her dark eyes before she leaned in again, this time to kiss him gently. "Thank you," she said, her voice heavy with honesty when they parted.

"_Ani ohev otach_." The words tumbled out of his mouth, feeling unfamiliar and almost awkward as they did so. He had wanted to tell her that he loved her for a long time now, even before she had spoken those words to him, but every time, found himself unable to form the words. He had wanted to tell her at her laughter as they made love after they were released from the hospital; when she would look behind her, exasperated at being held up by his slowness as they rode their bikes; when she slipped him his Sig in the El Al lounge in New York; countless times as they laid in bed; sometimes for no reason at all. The longer he had gone without saying it, the more of a big deal he knew it would be when the words finally came out, and the more reluctant he became at saying them. He finally decided that he just had to say it, and he had to say it right. Speaking them in her native language, he hoped, would show her that he was serious about this, that he wanted to make sure there was absolutely nothing lost in translation. When he heard the giggling of the young girl not far away, he was afraid that he had completely butchered the pronunciation, but when he saw the light return to Ziva's eyes, when he saw the beginnings of a smile return to her features, he knew that he had gotten his point across.

"I love you, too," she replied in English before leaning in for another lingering kiss. This time, when they stood unmoving in the courtyard, neither was crying.

---

Ziva tossed Tony the keys to the Maserati with a knowing smirk in her eyes as they left the courtyard. "Do not hurt the car," she admonished, "or my father will hurt you."

"I don't doubt that, Sweetcheeks," he replied, his breathing catching at the sound of the engine roaring to life. _A thing of beauty…_ "I just doubt that I could manage to hurt it more than you could."

She grinned at that as he shifted into reverse and backed out of the parking spot faster than necessary, and soon he was dodging traffic through the streets of Tel Aviv as Ziva navigated, and he was actually able to gain some first-hand insight as to why she drove the way she did. But, hell, it was _fun_in a 1960 Maserati 3500 GTs. It was amazing—in one morning, all of his teenaged fantasies had come true. He was driving The Car, he had The Beautiful Girlfriend in the passenger seat with a smile on her face and her hand on his thigh… He didn't have The Professional Basketball Career, though, but figured that would have been gone by thirty-seven anyway. In that moment, nothing could bother him. If Director David killed him as soon as he got back to the penthouse, he would die a happy man.

The ride back to the penthouse was far too brief for Tony—anything would have been too short—and he was soon swinging the Maserati into a parking space in the underground garage in a row of similarly-aged cars, all in the same pristine condition as the Maserati. He would have taken time to admire them, but Ziva was already heading for the private elevator that would take them back to her father's home. "How many of these does he have?" DiNozzo asked as he jogged a few steps to catch up.

"Maseratis?" she asked with a teasing glint in her eye. "Only the one."

"No, I mean classic sports cars," he said impatiently. He gave a longing look over his shoulder at the row of cars.

"Five," she replied, the elevator doors sliding closed. "But he cannot drive any of them anymore."

"Because of his illness?" he asked in a low tone. She looked amused at the question and shook her head.

"Because he is the director of Mossad," she explained. "Convertibles from the 1950's and 60's are not easy to secure."

"Oh." Talk about your bittersweet promotions; sure, you have power and prestige, but to not be allowed to drive the cars you love… He was still trying to figure out if it would be worth it to him as the elevator doors opened again.

"Officer David, Agent DiNozzo," Henri greeted them as they stepped into the foyer. "Welcome back. Would you like me to take your things upstairs?"

"No, thank you, Henri," Ziva replied. "We are going up anyway. I think we both need to get cleaned up. Fourteen hours on a Navy ship is too long."

Tony snorted. "Fourteen hours is nothing. Try four months."

She ignored the reference to his time as Agent Afloat and continued her conversation with Henri. "Can you inform my father that we have returned?"

"Very well, Officer David. I hope your trip was productive."

She paused on her ascent of the stairs and glanced down at Tony, a small smile on her face. "Yes, I think it was."

They were just stepping out of a very long shower when they heard a rapping at the door of the guestroom. "Officer David?" Henri's voice drifted through the wood-like material.

"In a minute, Henri," she replied, already digging through the drawers for something to change into. DiNozzo frowned; the butler was nothing if not observant. He wouldn't be interrupting them unless it was an emergency.

Sure enough, Henri persisted, if only through the thick door. "It is about Director David," he explained. Although his voice was as even as ever, DiNozzo thought he detected a sense of unease about the situation. Ziva stilled, clutching her towel closer to her body as she waited for Henri to elaborate. "He is in his study, _mademoiselle_, and he had collapsed to the floor. I can not get him up. Would you—." He stopped talking abruptly as Ziva burst through the door, still wearing only a towel, and sprinted down the stairs. Tony took a few seconds to throw on a pair of shorts before he followed, struggling to pull on a tee-shirt as he descended the narrow metal staircase.

He found Ziva kneeling on the floor of the study in front of a supine Director David, her towel somehow still in place. Not allowing himself to perseverate on the physics that allowed that—as he didn't know nearly enough physics to even begin to wonder how it was possible—he likewise crouched down. The director's dark eyes were half-open and not fixed on anything, his features completely slack. "I think he is having seizure," Ziva said grimly. DiNozzo frowned.

"A seizure?" he repeated. "I thought people shook and thrashed around—"

"Not all seizures," she snapped. Her hands were on either side of her father's face, holding his head in place. "He needs to be taken to the hospital."

Tony nodded and grabbed the phone on David's desk. He was about to hit the '9' to dial '911' when he remembered that they weren't in the States. "Is there some sort of Israeli number for 911?" he asked instead.

Ziva frowned and opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. "Give me the phone," she demanded. He did so and watched as she rose slightly to enter a series of numbers into the phone and frowned; it was much too long to be something for emergency services. He got no hints from the conversation, as he didn't know nearly enough Hebrew to follow the rapid words. Less than thirty seconds after being connected, she hung up, with further confirmed that she was calling some sort of private number instead of emergency services; he had never heard of a 911 operator who let someone go so quickly. "They are on their way," she informed him grimly, her eyes already back on her father.

"Ziva," Tony said gently. "Maybe you should go get dressed. I can watch him for a couple of minutes."

She frowned before glancing down at her towel-clad body, and he figured that in the excitement of the moment, she had forgotten that she had just gotten out of the shower. "Yes," she finally said with a nod. She rose from her kneeling position and left the study without another word. Tony frowned after her for until she rounded the corner and went out of view, then he returned his attention to the unconscious man on the floor in front of him.

He had no idea what to make of this newest development, but figured it wasn't going to be good.


	22. Chapter 22

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 22**

_A/N: Sorry about the sudden disappearance for a few days. My parents decided at the last minute to take a trip to the Oregon coast to visit some family and do some clamming in Netarts Bay. Normally, I like beaches, but when the air is 45 degrees (F) and the water even colder... well, that's a different story. I'm just glad to be back to civilization._

_Oh, and happy Memorial Day._

* * *

Ziva David didn't remember anything about the trip to the hospital. She remembered Tony's suggestion that she get some clothes on, then a run up the stairs, where she tossed on the first thing she found—a light-weight and loose shirt and pants that didn't coordinate well and a pair of sandals that didn't match either—before running back down to the study. Tony was in the exact same position she had left him in, kneeling over her father, checking his pulse and his breathing and making sure nothing was changing. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she heard a jealousy-tinged voice asking if that was something he had learned during his relationship with Dr. Jeanne Benoit.

It was less than a minute later—at least, she was pretty sure it was less than a minute—before the two paramedics entered the study and got her father onto a gurney and whisked him away. She had grabbed the first set of keys that her hands fell on—the dark purple 1964 Porsche 911—and took off after him. She was sure she must have been tailing the ambulance pretty closely, because she managed to park the car and make it into the hospital just as they were wheeling him directly into the private wing, and immediately, he was cut off from her by the large masses of doctors, nurses, and technicians shouting orders to each other and using words that she didn't understand, even though she was pretty sure they were speaking Hebrew.

"Ziva." She turned at the sound of her name to see Tony standing there. Without fully knowing why, she held out her arm, and he was quick to oblige, allowing her to pull him closer. He held her tightly for a long minute before letting her go, but kept his arm across her shoulders, and she had to admit, she felt almost like he was anchoring her there, to the moment, to the situation. She had never had that from someone else before.

Not having much more than a passing familiarity with the medical field, with the exception of her too-frequent hospital visits in her _metsada_ days, she had no idea what all occurred before the crowd began to disperse, a single physician heading toward her, his dark hair in seemingly-permanent disarray and contrasting with the still-pressed dress slacks and shirt under his long white coat. "Ziva," he greeted. His eyes darted slightly over to Tony before they again fixed on her, and when he spoke, it was in Hebrew. "We have stabilized—"

"English, please, Shmuel," she interrupted. She didn't even need to look at Tony to tell that he was wondering about that name and just how common it was in Israel.

"I'm sorry," the physician replied as he pushed gold wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. Again, she could practically feel Tony's confusion; here was a clearly Jewish physician in Israel speaking almost-unaccented English. Dr. Shmuel Rubenstein against glanced over to Tony before returning his attention to Ziva. "I'm assuming that everything is acceptable to discuss?"

"Yes," she replied with a nod. "This is my boyfriend, Tony DiNozzo." She realized that that was the first time she had introduced him as such. "He knows about my father's diagnosis. Tony, Dr. Shmuel Rubenstein, the private physician for the director and deputy directors of Mossad."

"Nice to meet you," Dr. Rubenstein said with a nod. He didn't give Tony an opportunity to return the greeting before immediately getting down to business. "Your father has been stabilized. He was in status epilepticus when he was brought in, we gave him some Ativan and pentobarbital, and his EEGs are improving. We're going to have to continue to watching him very closely. This room is set up to be converted to an ICU suite, which is what he needs."

"Why did this happen?" Ziva asked, her voice low. Dr. Rubenstein shrugged.

"Most likely, it's the natural progression of his disease. Was he doing anything when this started?"

"I do not know," she admitted. "Tony and I were called to a case yesterday afternoon. We had only just returned when Henri informed us that my father had collapsed in his study."

The doctor nodded. "There's nothing you could have done, other than what you did—calling me and getting him here." He paused. "Ziva, that conversation we had last year—"

"Later," she interrupted firmly. "This is his second relapse in a week. I am assuming you are in contact with Dr. Nurick?"

"He is aware of Tuesday's event, yes. I was just about to call him as soon as we are done. And to answer the question I'm sure you're getting at, I'll discuss with him when your father needs to be transferred to Vienna."

"Thank you," Ziva replied with a nod. That particular conversation was over, and after a beat of silence, she asked, "How is Laurel?"

The genuine smile appeared on his face. "She's well, but even more overworked than I. Her and her partners are expanding their practice. The children are also doing well. Elan is starting kindergarten soon, at our old primary school."

"I was not aware you again lived in that area," she confessed.

"We only moved there in January. Laurel found a house and fell in love with it, and I can't deny her anything, even though it is far out of our price range. She would love to have you over for dinner soon, both of you," he said, nodding toward Tony. A hint of a smile crossed his lips. "And you do not have to worry, Mr. DiNozzo. My wife is American. There is more English spoken in my home than Hebrew."

"Good to know," Tony replied with a thin smile.

Dr. Rubenstein glanced down at his watch before returning his gaze to Ziva. "The lab reports should be back soon, although I'm doubting they're going to show us anything we didn't already know. I should get down to the lab. They tend to run the tests faster if I am there staring them down." He gave an ironic smile. "Who would have thought twenty-five years ago that somebody someday would find me intimidating?"

Ziva smiled at that, remembering how he looked collapsed on the grass in the courtyard and how much her hand had hurt after she had hit him. "Thank you, Shmuel," she said with a nod. He nodded in return, but the expression on his face was serious.

"You can't put it off forever, Ziva," he said sternly.

"Later," she repeated. He gave another nod before he turned and headed down the corridor, his expensive shoes barely making a sound on the linoleum floor.

"What is he talking about?" Tony asked once the physician was out of earshot. Ziva glanced up at him before she began walking into her father's room.

"Later," was all she said.

---

'Later' wasn't as much later as she would have liked. "Have you noticed any change?" She almost jumped out of her chair at the unexpected voice and lifted her eyes from her father's sleeping form to the silhouetted figure in the doorway.

"He was briefly awake about an hour ago," she finally informed Dr. Shmuel Rubenstein as he pulled up another chair. "I believe now he is only sleeping. Was there anything in the lab reports?"

"No, just as I expected." He paused, watching her expression closely. "Were you expecting something?"

She shook her head slowly. "He talked yesterday of suicide," she admitted, "but an overdose would not be his style."

"No, it wouldn't be," Dr. Rubenstein agreed. He didn't appear surprised at the thoughts of suicide; she wondered what it took to surprise an American-educated board-certified geneticist. There was a long stretch of silence before he asked, "Mr. DiNozzo?"

"Tony is finding us something to eat for dinner," she informed him. She rolled her eyes slightly as her eyes returned to her father. "He is probably looking for a bacon cheeseburger."

Shmuel seemed to find that hilarious, breaking out in raucous laughter. "I guess I have never considered what it would be like to be in Israel and not be Jewish," he admitted after catching his breath.

"Not all Jews keep kosher," she pointed out.

"It is a lot easier to keep kosher in Israel than America," he countered. "Eleven years in New York City had taught me that."

"You did not come in here to talk about eating habits."

"No," he agreed. "I came in to ask about your father, and now that I have done that, am asking about you."

"I am fine."

"I'm sure you are. But you're also a captive audience."

She knew immediately what he was talking about and shook her head slowly. "You said my chances of being affected are almost non-existent."

"_Almost_," he stressed. "But statistically, the chances of your father being affected were also almost non-existent. Adult Polyglucosan Body Disease is very rare." She didn't say anything, and he pressed on. "We know you're a carrier. You have a bad gene from your father. In order for you to be affected, you would also need one from your mother. The odds of her being a carrier are too low to even calculate, but it's still possible." She still remained silent. "It's one blood test, Ziva."

"My mother is Russian," she finally replied. "Does that not reduce the risk?"

"No," he said bluntly. "She's still Ashkenazi, right?" She reluctantly nodded. "There have also been reports of mild forms of the disease in carriers. I talked with Dr. Nurick about this, and there's a chemical level we can check in your blood to see if you would be one of those people."

"So now we are talking two blood tests."

"Two tests, one vial of blood. Isn't it better to know?"

"Why?" she asked, finally facing him. "So I can know that when I am the age my father is now, that my body will begin to fail me, that I will have seizures in my home and have such bad tremors I can not always hold a teacup?" She gave a snort of ironic laughter. "I have never imagined that I would live to be my father's age. I did not believe that I would live to see thirty."

"But you did, so why couldn't you live longer? There are other reasons to find out, you know."

It took her a minute, but she caught on. "Children," she said flatly.

"Are you going to have any?" The question gave her pause. Was she? Could she picture herself pregnant, or as a mother, chasing around small children, making room in her schedule to pick them up from school or go to their plays? "It is a simple question, Ziva," Shmuel said gently.

"It does not have a simple answer," she replied before a sudden feeling of déjà vu washed over her. She had the exact same conversation with Gibbs, years ago. "And any decision made on the topic would not be made for years yet."

"Then this is the best time for some genetic tests." She looked over at him, confusion obvious on her face, but he wasn't looking back at her. "When you decide you want to have children is the worst time to find out that genetically, it's not a good idea." He absently twisted the titanium band around his left ring finger. "Laurel and I are both Tay-Sachs carriers," he finally said. "We're both board-certified geneticists—me for adults, her for pediatrics—so we've both seen Tay-Sachs and what it does to a family. We know the statistics—twenty-five percent chance of being completely unaffected, fifty percent chance of being a carrier, twenty-five percent chance of being affected." He shook his head slowly, still looking down. "That was too high for us, but we both really wanted children. We considered IVF, but then decided that there are enough children out there without parents that there was no reason to go to so much effort to create more."

"That is why you adopted."

He nodded. "That's why. And I love my children, Ziva, all four of them. Even when they're driving me insane, I love them, and I can't imagine being able to love them any more if they were our flesh and blood, but when we got those test results… That almost ended our marriage."

She didn't say anything for some indeterminate amount of time. "I do not know if I will have children someday," she finally said, "but Tony is the first whom I can see having them with, which is ridiculous. He is childish and immature and always has a movie reference handy. He argues when he gets bored and he gets bored easily. He is hardly husband-and-father material."

Shmuel nodded, a knowing smile on his face. "And yet, he is. You're lucky to have fallen in love with someone who isn't Jewish," he commented. He said the words lightly, but she could see the honesty in his gaze. She almost laughed at the irony; that fact had almost gotten Tony killed less than two months before. "He is Italian?"

"Yes."

"Northern?"

"I believe so."

He nodded. "I'll create a panel of genetic mutations to check for," he said after a long pause. "APBD, of course, but also others that are seen in the Ashkenazi population as well as Mediterranean. Northern Italy isn't exactly Mediterranean, but it's better to be safe than sorry."

"Yes."

He rose from his chair and glanced down at her. "Would you like me to talk to Tony about this?"

She looked up at him before slowly shaking her head. She gave him one word: "No."


	23. Chapter 23

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 23**

_A/N: I'm heading back to Columbus! I hate flying east against the time zones (nothing quite like leaving at 11am and landing at 11pm...), but it'll be good to spend a little bit more time with my fellow Buckeyes before heading even further east to DC for good. And it'll be good for you, too, because it means I'll be back to posting chapters in the morning in the Eastern time zone, instead of Pacific._

* * *

Time had lost all meaning for Tony DiNozzo. If it weren't for the light coming in through Director David's hospital room windows or the brief trips between the hospital and the penthouse—he was currently torn between the two David cars he had driven, the Maserati and the Porsche, as to which he enjoyed more—he wouldn't even be able to distinguish between day and night or count how many days had gone by since they had returned from the _Ramage_ to find Mossad's director in his study having a seizure.

He was just coming back to the hospital, now bearing a meal that the position of the sun in the sky told him must be lunch—he had been relieved to find a few days before that Jewish delis were as good in Israel as they were in the States—to find Ziva and Dr. Shmuel Rubenstein sitting in the hallway, across from the closed door of Director David's room, speaking in low tones that didn't extend to his ears as they studied something on Dr. Rubenstein's PDA. Not knowing what he would be interrupting, he was about to clear his throat to announce his arrival, even though he was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to understand anything they were saying anyway. However, Ziva glanced up before he had the opportunity, wearing an expression he couldn't quite interpret. He gave her a wide grin he didn't quite feel as he held up the bag containing their lunch, earning him a nod in reply.

"I tried to get your Philly cheesesteak, but the old lady at the counter at the deli didn't know what I was talking about," he said with a grin as he reached into the bag to pull out her sandwich. For some reason, Dr. Rubenstein found that to be funnier than it should have been and seemed barely able to contain his giggles. Ziva merely rolled her eyes at him before turning back to Tony.

"I hope you did not actually ask," she said.

"I was afraid of causing her to drop dead of a heart attack at the very notion of someone ordering something that isn't kosher," he replied dryly. Ziva nodded slightly as she took a bite of her food. He turned to Rubenstein. "Sorry, Doc. I didn't realize you would be here or I would have gotten you something." He glanced down at the remaining sandwiches in the bag. There was no way he was risking giving away Director David's lunch, which meant... "If you want, I can split this with you." He hoped he said no. He had been looking forward to this roast beef sandwich all day.

To his relief, the physician smiled and shook his head. "I have leftovers from dinner last night in the refrigerator in my office. I was planning on eating them for lunch later."

Tony made a face as he took a bite of his sandwich. _Just as good as I imagined_, he mused. "I don't eat leftovers," he stated flatly after he swallowed.

"You took leftovers to work for lunch every day for a week," Ziva pointed out. He smirked.

"That was only to mess with McGeek," he replied. She rolled her eyes and wrapped up the remnants of her sandwich before rising and muttering something in Hebrew. She caught Tony off-guard by reaching into his front pocket for the keys to the Porsche, giving him a large wink as she dangled them in front of her face before making a show of turning to walk away. He couldn't help but follow her with his eyes until she rounded a corner and was out of view. He took another bite of his sandwich, but found that the events of the last twenty seconds had left his mouth so dry that it took him awhile to work up the ability to swallow his food.

"I know my Hebrew's not very good," he finally said, meeting Dr. Rubenstein's amused gaze, "but did she just say that she needed a haircut before walking away with the keys to her father's Porsche?"

"Yes," the doctor confirmed. "I'm rather impressed. Of all of the Hebrew phrases to pick up, I wouldn't have thought that that would be one of the first." Tony didn't bother to explain that one; she had said the word thoughtfully a few weeks ago as she ran her fingers through his hair. After the third time she had done and said that, he checked online and realized that she was saying something about a haircut. He got one the next day, much to her pleasure. Maybe someday he'd let her in on how he had figured that one out.

The two men continued to sit in silence for several long minutes as DiNozzo ate his sandwich and Dr. Rubenstein flipped through something on his PDA. "So what were you and Ziva talking about when I arrived?" Tony asked casually.

"The plans to transfer Director David to Vienna," Rubenstein replied as he slipped the device into one of the pockets of his white lab coat. "He is continuing to improve, enough so that he will probably be discharged home soon, but Dr. Nurick would like him to be completely stable for a few days before making the flight."

"Aren't there air ambulances or something that can be used?"

Dr. Rubenstein looked amused. "The director prefers Mossad's Gulfstream."

"Oh." He couldn't blame the guy; if he had access to a Gulfstream, he'd want to use it, too. "Okay, I've been curious about this for a few days now. Are _you_ Mossad?"

"No," Shmuel replied with a chuckle. "I am merely a physician with very high security clearance." DiNozzo grinned; he liked that response. "I do have my connections to the agency, however."

"Let me guess: your father is Mossad."

"My mother," Rubenstein corrected. "She was an analyst, specializing in South America. My father was a banker. He was American, actually, but spent most of his time in Tel Aviv. When my parents married, she made it clear that she wished to stay in Israel. He had fallen in love with the country and had no problems agreeing to that." He lapsed into silence for a moment. "He was in New York City at his bank's branch in the World Trade Center on September 11."

"I'm sorry," DiNozzo said honestly. Dr. Rubenstein nodded.

"As am I. I was also living in New York at the time, in the midst of my internal medicine residency at Yeshiva. It was hard to be away from my mother and sister in mourning, but Laurel and I had the fortune of having my father over for Shabbat dinner the Friday before his death. There was no unfinished business between us when he died." He left that hanging there, and Tony couldn't help but think of all the unfinished business between Ziva and her father that would still be there when the man died. He doubted it would be possible for them to completely clear the air, even if they had several more lifetimes with which they could try. He was sure the same could be said about his relationship with his father.

"So how'd you line up this gig?" Tony asked, getting back to his original question. "Aren't you a bit young to be the private physician for Mossad's elite?" He was younger than Tony.

Rubenstein smiled slightly. "It is always a position that goes to fairly young physicians," he explained, "as we are more up-to-date on current diagnoses and treatments and more willing to look things up when we have questions. It's a five-year position, with a one year overlap between physicians. This is my second year, my first year working solo. As I mentioned, I have connections through my mother, but I am also a board-certified geneticist, and if there is one thing that a physician of Jews should know, it is genetics." He glanced down at his watch briefly before continuing, "I was the one who initially diagnosed Director David," he confided. "He had complaints of headaches and slight tremors. Many physicians would have just attributed it to stress and aging, but when one only has five patients, he can afford the time and effort to look further. A full chemistry panel revealed some abnormalities, which prompted genetic assays and nerve studies. After I made the diagnosis, I put him in contact with Dr. Nurick. He had been doing well with Dr. Nurick's treatments until this recent bout of relapses. Now, I'm not so sure."

DiNozzo frowned as he remembered something that Palmer had said when he first asked about APBD. "So, since this is a genetic disease… I really don't know anything about these things. Does it affect Ziva, too?"

Dr. Rubenstein looked surprised for a second, but shook his head briefly. "That is something you're going to have to take up with Ziva," he said gently. "I'm sorry, Tony. It's really not my place to talk about a patient's test results with anybody without her express permission." He rose to leave, but DiNozzo's hand grasped him around the arm.

"So she's been tested?" he asked, his voice low. Rubenstein studied him through the gold-rimmed glasses before nodding. "Is there anything I should know?" the NCIS agent pressed. Again, the physician hesitated.

"The full panel of results won't be back for several weeks yet," he finally said. DiNozzo frowned.

"Full panel?" he repeated. "You didn't just test for APBD?"

"When there's a genetic disease in the family, we typically test for related disorders as well as some more common genetic mutations," Dr. Rubenstein explained.

"So she could develop a different disease?"

"That is unlikely," the physician replied. "Most autosomal recessive disorders—the genetic diseases most common among those of Jewish descent—are obvious shortly after birth. ABPD is an exception, not the rule."

"Then why test for them?"

Dr. Rubenstein looked decidedly uncomfortable as he weighed his options, trying to figure out exactly what to say. "Such genetic information is often valuable to future generations," he finally said.

"Future…" DiNozzo said before trailing off. "Oh. You mean children." His voice was flat as he said those words, his mind already trying to wrap around the concept. Did Ziva want children someday? It wasn't exactly something they had discussed; they had only been together four months, and discussions about the future hadn't exactly been a priority. Their future planning was so poor that rarely did they even discuss whose apartment they would be sleeping in at night until just before they got in their cars and went there. Did she want children with _him_? He didn't fully understand all this talk about genetic diseases, but it sounded like both parents would have to be affected—carriers, was the word Palmer had used—for the kids to get the disease, and weren't these diseases that were more common in people of Jewish descent? He certainly wasn't Jewish, didn't think any of his ancestors had been, so he couldn't be affected—be a carrier—could he? So why was Ziva worried about it? Unless she wanted kids with someone _other_ than him, someone Jewish, probably. Not that she would necessarily have anyone in mind, but—.

"In my line of work, it is something that is often done, regardless of a patient's current desire to have children or ethnic background of a significant other," Rubenstein said, interrupting his racing thoughts. "In fact, it is not uncommon for eighteen-year-olds with no significant other to come into the genetics clinic, desiring to be tested, just so they have the information for a time later in life when they are thinking of having children." He studied the NCIS agent's face for a moment. "If there is something you are concerned about, I would suggest discussing it with Ziva. Now, if you excuse me, I would like to eat my lunch before my afternoon appointment."

"Doc," DiNozzo interrupted, again stopping Dr. Rubenstein from leaving. After a brief pause, he asked in low voice, "Is there something that I need to be tested for?"

"That, Tony, is entirely your decision." He smiled thinly before gently extracting his arm. "I will you see you later this afternoon." He again pulled out his PDA, studying the thin device as he walked down the corridor and out of sight.


	24. Chapter 24

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 24**

* * *

Ziva was about to slip the keys to the Porsche in her pocket before realizing that she didn't _have_ pockets. Inwardly cursing her decision that morning to wear a skirt, she palmed the keys and tried to figure out where to put them so she wouldn't lose them. She grinned suddenly; Tony certainly seemed to enjoy her taking the keys from him a few hours before; he would probably enjoy her method of giving them back just as much.

She tossed her now-shortened hair over her shoulder as she entered the hospital and traveled the now-familiar path to the private wing where her father would be. Not surprisingly, she found Tony sitting on the floor with his laptop on his knees—next to a short row of unoccupied chairs, which she didn't quite understand but didn't question—in the hallway across from her father's room. He glanced up before she could announce herself, and she wondered if he somehow had some sort of sixth sense that told him when she was near. She didn't quite know how she felt about that. "I like it," he said, nodding toward her hair. She tousled it slightly and made a face at the feel of the styling products they insisted on using at the salon.

"It is shorter than I anticipated," she admitted. It barely brushed past her shoulders, although it would probably be longer without all the gel they put in it to hold the curls.

"It looks good; of course, your hair would look good even if you shaved it off." He gave her a wide grin as she slid down the wall to sit next to him.

"How would it look good? It would be gone."

"Exactly." She wasn't following the conversation, but that wasn't too unusual. It wasn't worth the effort to get him to explain.

"How is my father?" DiNozzo made a face.

"Awake and barking orders in Hebrew into the phone when I brought him his lunch. He looked pretty fierce when he was glaring at me for the interruption. Guess he doesn't realize I don't know that much Hebrew. Anyway, I'm just glad he didn't have a gun or something on him, or I might not be here right now." She must have looked guilty, because he groaned. "You gave him a gun, didn't you?"

"Of course not!" she exclaimed. "There is oxygen in the room and too many possible objects for ricochet. A gun would be too dangerous for the environment." She barely paused before adding, "I gave him a knife."

He groaned again. "You _really_ don't like me, do you?"

"He does not dislike you, Tony."

"He has an interesting way of showing it."

"Yes," she replied simply. He looked apologetic as he took her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. He looked like he was going to say something but then changed his mind. They continued to sit in silence until she spoke again. "Laurel—the other Dr. Rubenstein—asked if we would like to have dinner at their house the night after tomorrow."

"Sure," he replied with a shrug. "What's the deal with Shmuel Rubenstein, anyway? You still close friends with everyone you've beat up?"

"You know I do not have that many friends," she replied with a slight smile. "My family lived two buildings from the Rubensteins until after I left for the IDF. My father and his mother occasionally worked together. Our families were close as I was growing up, so yes, we are still close friends."

"Still, or again?" She frowned at the question, and he continued. "He spent eleven years in New York, most of that time while you were running around with the IDF and Mossad. He came back two years before you arrived in Washington, does a genetics fellowship here in Tel Aviv, gets hired on as Daddy Director's private physician and diagnoses him with a terminal illness."

"You looked into my friend's background?" She didn't know why she was surprised. He simply shrugged.

"I have a lot of free time," he replied, no apology in his voice. She rolled her eyes.

"I hope you are not jealous of a man I beat up twenty-five years ago, who is now happily married with four children."

"No, not jealous. Just curious. People tell doctors things; I was just wondering what you've told him."

She immediately wondered if he had somehow found out about her conversation with Shmuel and the blood tests he had run. She couldn't imagine the physician giving that information out willingly when she had specifically asked him not to, but he was hardly a trained spy; he probably made some innocent-seeming comment, which Tony latched onto. The mild-mannered geneticist wouldn't have stood a chance against a trained investigator. Remembering how she had baited him into revealing the contents of a phone call years ago, though, she wasn't going to allow him to do the same. She knew that the best way to end the conversation was to attack below the waist. "Something you have experience with, Tony?" She left no question in her tone as to what she was talking about, and could tell by the slight narrowing of his eyes that the dig had hit its mark. She rose from her seated position. "I am going to check on my father." She didn't bother to look back at him as she walked into her father's hospital room and closed the door behind her. She might apologize later, if she was feeling charitable.

Not surprisingly, she found her father sitting up in bed, his BlackBerry in his hand and the Bluetooth earpiece in his ear. He barely raised an eyebrow as she entered and quickly ended the conversation. "Do I have you or Special Agent DiNozzo to thank for lunch?" he asked.

"I told him what you would like. He went to the deli and purchased it."

"Ah, a group effort."

"We have been partners for four years."

"I meant to ask before. How was the case you were called to?"

"We did not work the case," she informed him. "We merely processed the scene and supervised it until the special agent from the NCIS field office in Bahrain arrived." She doubted he really cared; he was just asking to be polite. "How are you feeling?"

"I will feel better when I am allowed to go home."

"Shmuel said it will not be long. And then Dr. Nurick wants you to see him."

"Yes, I know." He waved dismissively. "About our discussion on Saturday—"

"I do not want to talk about that," she interrupted.

"Please let me finish, Ziva. I want you to know, that you are right. That blaming Hamas for an attack would only lead to more violence." She blinked in surprise; of everything she had expected to hear from her father, that was not one of them. He wasn't done, however. "Together, we will find another way. There must be another—"

"Stop this!" She jumped up from her chair with her outburst and was almost surprised to feel the sting of tears in her eyes. "I have told you, I will not do this! I will not sit here and plan with you which terrorist organization is the best to frame for your suicide. I will not help you find a way to take your own life. Do you know what you are doing to me? In only a week, I have been forced to end my teaching assignment early and lie to my cousin about my reasons for traveling to Israel. On Saturday, I had to process a crime scene while still thinking about the fact that you were organizing a terrorist attack for the purposes of concealing your illness and your suicide. I have not slept more than three hours at a time since I heard you lost consciousness while meeting with the prime minister. I have worried that maybe I will someday suffer from this same disease and will want to escape my fate in the same way you are attempting. I allowed your doctor to convince me that I need to be tested for an unknown number of genetic diseases. I cannot go out into the hallway yet because I just said something that was unnecessarily cruel to the man I love, who has been nothing but supportive since this all began, and I cannot stay here, because I cannot stand to be in the same room as you!" She took a deep breath and angrily paced a few steps in the small space. "I have dealt with a lot from you, my entire life, but this… This I cannot deal with." Without giving him an opportunity to respond, she stormed out the room, surprising both her father and Tony, still sitting on the floor in the hallway with his computer on his knees.

"Ziva!" She heard Tony call out to her but ignored him, continuing her fast-paced walking to get _out_, to get as far away from the hospital as possible, as soon as possible. "Ziva, just stop!"

"Not now, Tony." She pushed open the door to the stairs, not even knowing how far behind her Tony was, and ran down the five flights of stairs. She heard a second set of footsteps about two flights behind her, but ignored them in her rapid descent. She still had the Porsche key in her hand, never having had the opportunity to slip it into Tony's pocket before she shot back with her biting remark, and she ran toward the purple sports car now, not even hearing Tony calling out her name and asking her to stop.

_Unlock the door; open it. Key in the ignition; turn it. Foot on the clutch, shift to reverse, foot on the gas._ She talked herself through the steps she had known for most of her life, not willing to allow anything else to fill her mind. She just wanted to _drive_, to get away, and the destination wasn't nearly as important as the number of kilometers between it and the hospital. She would drive all the way to NCIS if she thought she'd be able to find a gas station in the middle of the Atlantic.

She caught sight of Tony standing by the hospital exit through her rearview mirror as she swung the car out of the parking lot. He wasn't doing anything, just watching her leave, and somewhere in the back of her mind, it occurred to her that a relationship with her should have qualified as cruel and unusual punishment, and he certainly didn't deserve that.


	25. Chapter 25

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 25**

* * *

Tony DiNozzo was sitting on the step leading from the parking garage to Director David's private elevator when Ziva David swung the dark purple 1964 Porsche 911 into its parking spot. He didn't move as she killed the engine and shut off the headlights, didn't get up when he heard the door slam shut or her footsteps on the cold concrete. He remained sitting there, his expression blank, his eyes fixed on her face.

"It is 0400," she stated, stopping about two meters from where he sat. "You should be asleep."

"I was waiting for you. I was worried."

She snorted and looked away. "You do not need to worry about me, Tony."

"I know." She turned at the tone of his voice. "But that's not going to stop me."

They continued to stare at each other, not moving, for several long minutes. "Why are you here, Tony?" she asked, her voice low.

"I told you, I was waiting."

"No," she began, then stopped. "That is not what I meant. Why are you here, in Israel, with me?"

The expression on his face didn't change at all, but he knew she could hear the exasperation in his voice. "We've been over this already."

She looked away and blinked several times, and Tony didn't miss the shine of new tears in her eyes. She pushed back her wind-whipped hair from her face, and he was struck by how close she looked to falling apart. He didn't know what to make of the Ziva he had been seeing the last week, the one who could break out into tears without any warning, the one who would alternate between loving him and being disgusted by him. He saw no trace of the strong, opinionated, confident woman he had been sharing a bed with the last four months and a life with the last four years. "Tony…" she said, her voice trailing off. She turned back to face him. "You do not deserve me."

The smile that crossed his face lacked any mirth. "You messed that one up, Ziva. If you're happy with someone, it's 'I don't deserve you'. If you're breaking up, it's 'it's not you, it's me'." They locked eyes for a moment. "So which is it?"

He was sure the long stretch of silence would kill him. He wanted to get to his feet, close the gap between them, and kiss her senseless. Or at least wrap his arms around her and tell her it would be okay. But he was pretty sure that either action would result in a few broken bones—falling apart or not, she could still kick his ass—so he remained seated and waited for her answer. The longer he waited, the more he found himself wondering how much plane tickets from were Tel Aviv to Washington, DC when not financed by Israeli intelligence agencies. "This was not supposed to happen," she finally said, her voice as low as it was previously, and he wondered if she was talking to him or to herself.

He had to guess what she was referring to. Her father dying? Well, it wasn't something that most children thought about, that was for sure, and to be complicated by the fact that her father is also her boss, and that he was dying of a rare genetic disorder that he didn't want anyone to know about, and that he wanted to kill himself and frame a major terrorist organization, probably didn't help. But they hadn't been talking about her father, which made him pretty sure it was something else, something he didn't want her second-guessing any more than he already was: them falling for each other. "No," he replied truthfully. "But it did."

"It should not have."

"Why not?"

She gave a mirthless and almost manic laugh that almost made him cringe. "Why not, Tony?" she mocked. "Because you are you, and I am me, and both of us were trained to be not-nice people, and when everything else fails, we will always revert to our training."

"Is that really the issue?" He finally rose to his feet and took a step further, just so that they were close enough that he could take advantage by his height. "Our training?" When she didn't respond, he continued. "What you said today, about Jeanne, what did you want me to say? Deny that we talked, that I told her anything? We both have our pasts, Ziva. You know everything about mine, probably down to the bra size of every woman I had ever slept with. You know exactly what happened with Jeanne. You were there for that whole train wreck. You tried to get me to move on afterwards and practically implied that I move on to _you_. Why the hell is the past still an issue between us?"

She gave a bitter laugh that again made him want to cringe. "Oh, that is rich, Tony! To claim that you know we both have pasts and that that does not bother you, after you researched the background of a man I hit _because he told me he liked me when I was eight!_"

"I didn't look into his past because he liked you when you were kids!" he insisted. "That had nothing to do with it."

"Then why, Tony?"

"Because he's a geneticist and your father is dying of a genetic disease and you seem to have these secrets and I want to why!"

"Then it would not be a secret, would it!"

He glared and took a deep breath, trying to get himself to calm down. Their shouted voices were echoing throughout the concrete parking garage, and he couldn't help but wonder how much of Tel Aviv was now privy to just how screwed up their relationship was. He lowered his voice several decibels. "Is that why I had to find out from _your father's doctor_ that you want to have kids?"

"He _told_ you that?"

"Not intentionally," Tony admitted. "He told me just enough that I was able to figure it out for myself."

"He should not have said anything."

"Is that really the issue right now?" Now it was her turn to glare, and he had to admit, it was pretty scary in her present state. If her hand started inching toward her waist, he was getting out of there.

"You are reading too much into a few blood tests, Tony," she replied, her tone almost mocking. "They do not necessarily mean that I want children, and even if I did, that I want with them with you."

He blinked and stepped back as if actually struck. He hadn't thought that hearing her say those words would affect him at all, since their future together and children and whatever else would be involved had remained as far removed from their conversations as possible, but now that it was out there, it was out there. Even though it had only been a remote possibility, to have the possibility removed entirely… It hurt him in a way he hadn't realized possible, and he realized fully just how much he had invested in this relationship. It almost came as an epiphany to him that it was all or nothing, that he wouldn't be able to settle for somewhere in between.

Ziva's eyes widened as she registered what she had just said. A look of horror crossed her face. "I do not know why I said that," she said, her voice pained. "I said that specifically to hurt you, and that does not seem like something that should happen in a normal relationship." It seemed every day he was with Ziva, Gibbs' twelfth rule made more and more sense. Not only would their professional relationship be ruined if their personal relationship took a dive, but dating your partner meant that you were dating the person who knew you best, who knew your likes and dislikes and knew how to make you laugh and how to hurt you like nobody else could.

He had to laugh at her words, if only to try to cover the pain that her previous statement had caused, but not even his mirthless laughter could conceal just how much she had hurt him. "Normal? _Normal?_ When the hell have we done anything the normal way?" Her expression had changed from mortified to annoyed, and he toned it down as he reminded himself that baiting an exhausted and worn assassin at 0400 is never a good idea. "I don't care about normal, Ziva. I just care about you." She didn't say anything to that and finally broke the gaze, her eyes looking everywhere but at him. "Ziva," he said gently, attempting to return her attention to him. Nothing. "What are we doing?"

"I do not know," she replied, her voice barely a whisper. He took another step forward, and when she didn't lash out, another, until he was able to wrap his arms around her. She made no effort to return the embrace, but didn't push him away. "I do not know," she repeated.

He kissed her temple and then went back to holding her. He had no idea how long they stood there in the dim light of the underground parking garage, unmoving. If it weren't for the warmth of her breath against his neck, he couldn't have been sure she was actually there. "I can't be the only one in this, Ziva," he murmured.

"I know."

"I want to be here for you, but if just keep pushing me away, there's nothing else I can do."

He felt her nod her head slightly. "I know," she repeated.

He pulled back slightly and traced her jaw with his finger before leaning down and kissing her gently. When they separated, he could see her eyes again glistening with tears. "I love you," he said honestly. "I would do anything for you. I would throw away my career, break every law and international statute, if you needed me to. I just… I just can't be with you right now."

Her eyes closed for a few seconds as she nodded her understanding. She opened them again, and then they closed when she rose on her toes to kiss him again. "I love you, Tony."

He took a second to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear, memorizing everything about her face at that moment. Then, without another word, he turned and left the parking garage.


	26. Chapter 26

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 26**

_A/N: Wow, what a great response to the last chapter! Of course, since many reviews were questioning what I wrote/scolding me for writing it, I don't know if "great" is the best choice of words... j/k! Thanks for all the reviews, and please, keep them up! I almost didn't post today, just to build suspense, but I'm not that mean. Close, but not quite :)_

* * *

In the course of her adult life, Ziva David had hunted terrorists and killed people before they could kill her. She had lived undercover for what seemed like years at a time. She had been shot at, stabbed, beaten, had her bones broken and her ego bruised. She had gone for days without food and knew from experience that she could last four minutes without oxygen without passing out.

And yet, she had never felt the kind of pain she was currently feeling.

_What a cruel joke_, she thought bitterly, watching her reflection in the mirror as she gathered her hair into a ponytail. She looked tired and drawn and needy, and not even when she was lying in a hospital bed after being beaten within a centimeter of death did she look so thoroughly defeated. She frowned at the phrasing of the thought; it didn't sound quite right, which just made her feel worse. She could imagine saying it out loud, could see the look on Tony's face as he tried to decipher her meaning and then the slow smile when it came to him and he corrected her. And then she would argue with him and tell him that the idiom made more sense the way she said it, and he would tell her that it was time to adapt. It was such a familiar exchange, and even though it once bothered her to no end, it now rarely failed to make her feel better. The absence that she had felt before was now multiplied to a new level at the realization that she had managed to push Tony far enough way that he had walked out. He had been so desperate to get away from her that he ventured out into the early morning hours of a foreign country where the people spoke a language he knew fewer than twenty words of. _It is no wonder you let Michael back into your bed last year_, she mocked at her reflection. Dealing with her father's diagnosis and the knowledge that he would be dying soon—and his stubborn insistence not to resign his post, despite the knowledge of what his disease would do to him—while also dealing with her grief and guilt about Jen's death and the loss of the co-workers she had allowed to become closer to her than family, she had needed that physical release, even though it never failed to make her feel worse afterwards; worse and even more guilty because she had found herself saddened by the fact that Michael wasn't Tony, and sleeping with him couldn't make her feel the way a simple conversation with Tony could.

Try as she might, she couldn't manage to push that thought away, but standing there certainly wasn't going to help. Even though she knew that it would be a bad run—already several hours after she would normally want to run, the heat and humidity combined with her fatigue would probably only result in her feeling more frustrated when she returned—she grabbed her shoes and left the guestroom.

And her timing couldn't have been worse. Bending down in the foyer to tie her shoes, she heard the quiet rumble of the elevator as it ascended. Instantly alert, she quickly ran through names in her head, trying to figure out who it could be. Her hand inched toward her hip, where she had her knife hidden under her running shorts. Regardless of what else was going on in her life, she was going to be ready.

She tensed as the elevator stopped, the doors slowly starting to open. As she began to make sense of the figures standing there, she let her guard down, and her ready expression made way to one of confusion. Of the three men in the elevator, her eyes went between two of them, and her confusion deepened. "Papa?" she finally asked.

"It appears you had left something outside," he replied. His expression belied no emotion, but she was sure she wasn't just imagining the wry amusement behind his words. "And if you excuse me, I would like to retire to my study. Aaron, with me." He made his way through the foyer and down the short hallway without another word.

Ziva's eyes broke from her father's retreating figure to the remaining man in the elevator, and for a moment, neither said anything as they continued to watch each other warily. The elevator, on the other hand, seemed to have other things to do. The doors began to slowly slide closed before Ziva reached in and grabbed his shirt, pulling him out into the foyer, toward her. Once there, they continued to stand and stare at each other, neither moving, his shirt still in her hand. "What are you doing here?" she finally asked.

For a long minute, he didn't say anything. "I don't know."

She nodded slowly; she could understand that. "Where did you sleep last night?"

Tony gave an almost bitter laugh. "The Marriot down the block," he said, nodding in the general direction of that hotel. "Paid way too much for a bed, considering that I slept in it for about five minutes."

She nodded again. "I could not sleep, either," she confessed.

"You were confused about the fact that the comforter was staying in place and nobody was snoring, too?" he asked wryly. She gave him a slight smile; he was always complaining about her taking the blankets and how loud she snored. She always shot back that if he didn't like it, he was welcome to sleep elsewhere; he never did.

"Something like that," she replied. She played with the front of his shirt for a minute, not meeting his gaze. "What did you do with your time?"

"I called Abs," he said. "Talked to her for about an hour."

"Only an hour?" Phone conversations with Abby were usually much longer than that, especially when calling from a foreign country, as she discovered the one time she had called the forensic scientist from Israel the summer before.

"My phone died," he admitted. "Charger's here."

"Ah." Much like the nowhere direction of the conversation, neither of them had moved from the positions they had been in since she pulled him from the elevator, and while Ziva wanted to talk about whatever it was that had happened only a few hours before, she found herself unable to form the words. Instead, she asked, "How is Abby?"

"Same old Abby," Tony replied. "She was worried about you. I told her she didn't have to worry. I was doing enough worrying for the rest of the whole damned team." Her hands stilled on his chest, which prompted him to take them and kiss her knuckles. Her eyes went to his, where she expected to find some sort of resentment or sarcasm, but saw only honesty. "I know you don't need anyone worrying about you. I tried to stop, but I couldn't." She found herself unable to look away from his eyes. "If it weren't for your father… where would we be?"

She didn't even have to think about that. "We would be in your apartment, still arguing about the bicycles."

The laugh that escaped from his mouth was so true and so Tony that she couldn't help but smile at it. "God," he muttered. "I honestly forgot about that. It seems like so long ago now."

"It was a week."

"Hey, that's like an eternity in DiNozzo-ville."

"Yes, who would have thought that a trained NCIS investigator would have the same impression of the passage of time as a toddler?"

He grinned back before his face again became serious. He smoothed back her hair, and she realized for the first time just how often he did that—played with her hair, tucked it behind her ear, pushed it away from her face, tousled it to make her smile—especially since they started sleeping together. She wondered if there was a reason for it or if it was just an excuse to keep his eyes on her face for another few seconds. "Gibbs told me not to push you," he informed her, "but if you keep pushing me, I'm going to have to push back."

She nodded; that explained why he hadn't been his usual argumentative self. "That sounds fair," she agreed. He smiled and kissed her lightly.

"Want company for your run?" he asked. It seemed that that particular topic was now closed. She was about to agree, but ended up shaking her head.

"I do not think I need to run today," she said. She began to turn to head back up to the guestroom. "Come to bed with me?"

"Well, you don't need to ask me twice," he quipped, but his feet remained planted as she gently tugged on his arm. "You don't have to just use me," he said, his voice low. She remembered her earlier thoughts that morning, from before he came in, about the various ways she had used Michael. She nodded to acknowledge Tony's words.

"I can use some sleep," she finally said. That actually was what she had been thinking about when she asked him to come to bed with her. Her sleepless night the night before certainly wasn't the first in the last week. At this rate, it wouldn't be long until her sleep deprivation caused her to start seeing pink elephants, or even worse, shooting at them.

"So can I," he replied, finally moving to follow her toward the stairs. She detected a tone of relief in his voice, and wondered if it was from the thought of actually getting sleep, or if it was because she asked him to join her.

They stayed on their respective sides of the bed and got into a silent tugging match over the blankets, and right before Ziva's eyes drifted closed in sleep to the near-silent hum of the air conditioner, she could have sworn she saw a tired smile on Tony's face. She was pretty sure there was one on hers as well.

---

Tony woke up and glanced at his watch, which he forgot to take off before falling asleep. _Two hours. Great_. At this rate, he was going to have to take a month-long vacation when he returned from _this_ vacation, just so he could get caught up on sleep.

He glanced over at the other figure on the bed, rolling his eyes at the sound of her snoring. _God, that's annoying_, he thought with a grin. He still didn't know how a woman her size produced so loud and obnoxious snores, but for some reason, he was starting to find that it was getting more and more difficult for him to fall asleep without hearing her snoring. If that wasn't love, he didn't know what was.

He snorted at that thought, wondering if it was the sleep deprivation that was making him starting to sound like a teenaged girl. Deciding that he needed to get out of there before he started to wax poetic about her hidden guns or how he now had five different bottles of…stuff he didn't really know what to make of in his shower, he tossed off the blanket and climbed out of bed, making sure to close the door to the guestroom quietly before descending the stairs.

As always when he woke up, regardless of how long he had been asleep, food was among the first things on his mind, prompting him to head directly for the kitchen. Distracted by thoughts of things Henri might have left out, he completely missed the Mossad director sitting at the kitchen table until said director spoke. "Did you have a good nap?" he asked mildly. DiNozzo jumped almost six inches as he spun in surprise.

"You scared me," he said without thinking. "Not that that wasn't your goal. I'm sure it was. You're pretty good at it, which makes sense, being the director of Mossad and all."

Eli David raised an eyebrow in amusement at DiNozzo's rambling. "Do you always talk so much, Agent DiNozzo?"

"Usually," Tony admitted with a nod. "And it's 'Tony'. I'm dating your daughter; you can call me by my first name."

"Very well," David replied, also nodding. "I hope you do not expect me to extend the same courtesy."

DiNozzo chuckled uneasily. "I don't think I could even if you offered."

"Then it is for the best that I do not."

"Right." He continued to stand there and tried not to think about how much Director David's stare was freaking him out. When Ziva gave him that look, it was kinda sexy, but on her father… He barely suppressed a shudder of fear. Feeling the need to fill the silence when it stretched on too long, he said, "Uh, I was actually wondering—"

"Henri had left some food in the refrigerator," David interrupted. He glanced up. "That is what you were looking for, yes?"

"Yeah," he muttered in reply. _Damned spies_. He found what Director David was referring to and grabbed a plate from the fridge. _Next issue: where to eat it._ Did he risk sitting down with Daddy Director, or did he eat off the plate while standing at the counter?

"Please, join me." Or he could just wait for an invitation. He reluctantly pulled out a chair and joined David at the table. "Is my daughter still sleeping?"

Tony winced at the director's use of the possessive before nodding. "Yeah. She hasn't been sleeping well lately." He figured there was no point in hiding his familiarity with that fact; it wasn't as if David didn't know that DiNozzo was sleeping with his daughter.

"Yes, a fact that she informed me of in the hospital yesterday afternoon." He studied Tony further, making him squirm again. "I do not suppose that you would enlighten me if I were to ask why you were outside my apartment complex this morning?"

"No," Tony said flatly. David accepted that, nodding slightly.

"It seems I owe you an apology," he said, seeming out of blue. Seeing the confused look on DiNozzo's face, he continued, "Ziva is not quick to trust anybody. That is my fault. I accept full responsibility for it."

Tony blinked in surprise; that was unexpected. "I haven't exactly been all that trustworthy," he finally admitted. Realizing how that sounded, his eyes widened. "Not that I would ever cheat on Ziva," he said quickly. "I just mean, from before."

"Yes," David said simply. "I do not doubt your feelings for my daughter."

Again, he blinked, trying to make sense of the whole conversation. "You don't even know me."

"No," the Mossad director agreed. "But you came back this morning. For a man with your history, that could not have come automatically, but yet you did so. That simple action speaks volumes." He brought his cup of tea to his lips, and DiNozzo thought he detected the slightest of tremors in the form of the shaking of the dark liquid. "I made a career out of observing people, and rarely had I arrived at the incorrect conclusion from my observations."

"Oh." He couldn't think of anything else to say. After another long stretch of silence, he commented, "I like your cars. I'm still trying to decide which I like better so far, the Maserati or the Porsche."

"Ah," David said, a small but genuine smile on his face. "I am fond of the Porsche myself, but I have always had a weakness for German cars. Many in this country might find that strange, but that is the way it is." He shrugged at the thought before asking, "And what do you drive?"

"Ford Mustang," Tony replied. He winced at a memory. "I had a '66 until a couple of years ago, but it was an unfortunate victim in a protracted war between half of the federal agencies in DC and an arms dealer. I ended up getting a '70 to replace it. I looked for a '65, but not many people are selling those."

"Yes, they are quite the collector's item." David rose from his chair and made his way to the cabinet where Ziva had grabbed the keys to the various cars. After studying the collection briefly, he selected one and tossed it toward the NCIS agent, who caught it easily. Tony's eyes widened as he comprehended what he was holding. "It is my one American car," David said as he returned to his chair. "Perhaps you and Ziva would like to take it for a drive when she awakens?"

DiNozzo turned the key in his fingers a few times. "This is a '65 Ford Mustang?" he asked in disbelief. "You have a 1965 Ford Mustang?" Even a '65 was barely in the same class of car as the Maserati or Porsche, but he found himself almost more impressed with the fact that Director David owned it than either of those.

"Yes," David replied. "Sports cars have always been a weakness of mine, much to the frustration of my estranged wife. She preferred to spend money on clothes. I have actually never driven that one. I purchased it a little over a year ago. There was an American ex-patriot who had died, and his estate was selling his belongings, including his car collection. Ziva insisted that I buy it. It was in fairly good condition, needing only a few repairs and a new paint job. I wanted red, but she insisted on blue." He took a sip of his tea. "It was the only car she drove while she was in Tel Aviv."

"I'm surprised it's still driveable, then," Tony murmured as he studied the key, thinking about what the director had just revealed. A year ago, she was home in Israel and sleeping with Rivkin, yet she had her father buy a car that reminded her of him, down to the paint job. He suddenly felt about two inches tall for walking out that morning; clearly she desired his comfort a long time before he realized it. "Do you want to go?" he blurted out. He didn't know what possessed him to ask the director of Mossad if he wanted to join him for a drive, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

David looked surprised, then merely amused. "I am afraid that that is not possible," he replied. "My security detail has informed me of that fact. I am only to ride in armored cars."

"It seems a waste of all of these cars."

"Indeed, it is. It is good that you and Ziva are putting them to use while you are here. It has been too long since anyone has driven them."

"Yeah," DiNozzo murmured thoughtfully. He held up the key as he rose from the table. "Thanks, for letting me borrow this. Don't worry, I won't let Ziva hurt it."

David chuckled. "She was more careful with that car than any other she had ever driven," he confided. Again, Tony wanted to kick himself for how unobservant he had been. He managed a quick grin before heading back up to the guestroom; as eager as he was to drive the Mustang, there were more important things in life, such as showing the woman sleeping there that he could be there for her, whenever she needed. The car could wait.


	27. Chapter 27

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 27**

* * *

Tony was studying the bottle of wine as carefully as if the label contained all the secrets of the universe. "This is a _really_ nice bottle," he mused.

"Yes, Tony," Ziva replied, somewhat impatiently. He had made the same comment three times already that evening. "I was the one to pick it out, remember?"

"I mean, it's a Domaine du Castel 'C' Blanc du Castel 2005. This is the highest scoring Israeli wine _ever_. You didn't even have this bottle in that wine collection the Israeli embassy left you with. This is way too nice of a bottle to give to people who have kids."

Ziva snatched the bottle from his hands. "And if you do not stop complaining, you will not get any of it," she informed him in a tone that left no room for argument. She felt oddly like she was disciplining a child. His pout did nothing to change that impression. "And when did you become such an expert on Israeli wines?"

"Food Network," he replied simply. At her confused expression, he added, "It was a while ago." That made sense, then. He had already admitted to her—as well as to Abby and McGee—just how much TV he had been watching during his dry spell.

They both turned toward the door as it finally opened. "Sorry about leaving you waiting," Dr. Shmuel Rubenstein apologized. "It's surprisingly difficult to get from the kitchen to the front door with a toddler clinging onto my leg. Please, come in."

"We brought wine," Ziva commented as the followed the physician into his house. It was fairly large, at least by Tel Aviv standards, and unlike Director David's penthouse, was tastefully and simply decorated. That was, except for the play pen complete with toddler set up in the living room.

Rubenstein took the bottle Ziva offered and raised his eyebrows. "Oh, wow," he said. "It looks like you've been raiding your father's wine cellar. Thank you. Laurel will really appreciate this. She took a wine tasting course last year, and ever since, it's been all 'bouquets' and 'flavor notes' and 'finishes'. She keeps trying to talk me into a wine tasting tour, but getting our schedules to line up has been rather difficult." He rolled his eyes slightly before pushing his glasses up his nose. "Anyway, this will be perfect with dinner. We're having roast chicken. It's one of the few meals Laurel trusts me do by myself. She's running a little late, by the way. One of her patients was taken to the hospital earlier this evening, so she is making sure that everything is settled." He was talking quickly and slightly nervously. Ziva doubted Laurel left Shmuel alone to entertain guests very often.

"Nothing serious, I hope," she commented.

Another eye roll. "Nothing that could not be taken care of with better parenting," he replied, somewhat snidely. "The patient has VLCAD deficiency, and the parents don't seem to realize this, despite the fact that Laurel has told them several times how to care for their daughter."

"I really have no idea what that means, Doc," Tony pointed out. Rubenstein smiled sheepishly.

"Sorry. VLCAD deficiency is very long-chain acyl-coenzyme A dehydrogenase deficiency—"

"That's actually worse."

Rubenstein grinned and apologized again. "The medical profession has its own language, and geneticists are even worse. It's a genetic disorder. The body can't process certain kinds of fats as energy, so the patients have to be kept on a specific diet and must eat every four hours during the day. This particular patient is only eight months old and has been hospitalized four times, because the mother keeps forgetting this." He shook his head slightly. "Anyway, Laurel should be returning soon, just as soon as she finishes giving the parents a tongue-lashing that only she can get away with, because her patient's parents just seem to think that it's because she's American." As if on cue, the front door opened, accompanied by a female voice speaking Hebrew in an annoyed tone. Ziva smiled at the words: _Some people should not be allowed to procreate_. Shmuel merely raised an eyebrow and called out, "Tony and Ziva are here."

"Ah," Dr. Laurel Rubenstein replied in unaccented English as she stepped into view. "That explains the very nice blue Mustang parked outside. Sorry." She gave a quick grin before greeting her husband with a brief kiss. She turned back to Tony. "I know Ziva, so you must be Agent DiNozzo. Dr. Laurel Rubenstein."

"You can just call me Tony," he offered.

"And it's just Laurel. There are too many Dr. Rubensteins around these parts." She rolled her eyes at her husband, who just shrugged. Ziva remembered thinking within two minutes of meeting the pediatrician the year before just how well-matched the two physicians were. Laurel was more extroverted, countering Shmuel's quieter and more reserved manner, and neither was outdoing the other in the looks department, either. It wasn't that either of them were unattractive; they were just both a bit plain, unlikely to turn any heads while walking down the street. Shmuel was tall and a bit ungangly and awkward, with his glasses and unruly dark hair and fairly untoned build—in fact, now that she thought about it, he almost resembled Jimmy Palmer, if one didn't look too close. Laurel, on the other hand, was a bit mousy, with slightly wavy light brown hair and light brown eyes. She had the build of a woman who had once been quite athletic and probably still hit the gym or the running track every once in awhile, and while she was still far from being considered obese, her short stature did nothing to hide the few extra pounds she now carried.

Laurel turned to her husband again. "I'm going to run upstairs and change into something that doesn't smell like a hospital. I assume the older three kids are up there playing?"

"Yeah," Shmuel replied with a nod. "I fed them earlier. And I haven't heard anything from them for quite awhile, so either one of them is a _metsada_ operative in the making and has taken out the other two, or they're actually getting along for once."

Laurel shrugged at the thought as she began heading for the stairs. "In either case, we couldn't be so lucky," she said dryly. "And I wouldn't put it past Lilah. That girl is sneaky." Ziva caught Tony's eye; he was grinning at her in regards to the direction of the conversation. She smiled in return and shrugged; those who grew up and currently worked around Mossad officers tended to think about thinks differently than most people. She doubted that there were many couples who so casually joked about traits that would make their daughters ideal candidates for training in espionage and assassination.

The pediatrician returned a few minutes later, now in khakis and a lightweight top, an outfit more like those of the other three adults than her professional clothes were. "They're all still alive and actually cooperating on building something with that Lego set my brother sent over, as amazing as that sounds."

"Good. I was getting worried." Shmuel said those words dryly and added a roll of his eyes. Just as she was when dining with the Rubensteins the year before, Ziva was slightly fascinated with their casual approach to parenting. It wasn't that they didn't care about what happened to their kids, it was more that they seemed content with letting their children be children and dealing with the scrapes and bruises as they arose. It was so different from her own up-bringing that she was barely able to reconcile in her mind that both methods were referred to as 'parenting'. "The food is almost ready, if you wanted to put that pie in the oven," he continued to his wife. To Tony and Ziva, he explained, "Laurel makes an excellent apple pie—it's one of the things I'm not allowed to attempt. She doesn't want her reputation tarnished by serving my substandard pie."

"He's exaggerating," Laurel interjected.

"She assembled the pie last night and kept it in the fridge to be baked during dinner. That's how much she doesn't want me near it," he finished with a grin. "Let's open up that bottle of wine and get started."

---

Shmuel Rubenstein's chicken, potatoes, and vegetables were so good that Tony began to suspect that the children of Mossad employees had some sort of summer camp where they learned how to cook and play piano and throw knives and speak a different language every week. He was about to ask the physician if he was able to sing and dance, but figured Ziva wouldn't be amused by the question.

After they finished eating, the four adults remained seated around the table, finishing off the bottle of wine and joking about stories while Syshe, the fourteen-month-old toddler, amused himself in the play pen several feet away in the living room. They kept the conversations light, avoiding any talk of dying Mossad directors or slaughtered Navy physicians, and Tony felt like he was dropped in some sort of alternate reality where he was a mature adult doing mature adult things. It reminded him of when he went back to Columbus for the OSU-Michigan game in 2006 and went over to his pledge brother's house for dinner before heading back to DC. The man, who was so notorious for his drinking and partying back in college that his pledge name was 'Double Shot', had been talking enthusiastically about his job as an investment banker and the exclusive Upper Arlington pre-school he had gotten his daughter into, and the whole evening freaked DiNozzo out so much that he hadn't talked to Mark since.

He took another sip of wine to try to center himself, which only made it worse as he realized that, instead of getting drunk off cheap beer and laughing at the exploits of eighteen-year-old boys, he was sipping expensive wine and chuckling of tales of physicians and their patients—and he wasn't as bothered by it as he felt he should have been. Maybe some things really _were_ inevitable, and he wasn't just talking about a roll in the hay with a very attractive partner. He caught himself smirking as he had mentally played the conversation if Ziva had said it: she would have said 'roll in the straw', he would have corrected her, she would have argued… He wondered what that said about their relationships, that even when she wasn't speaking he could hear her voice in his head.

He glanced over at Ziva and noticed the politely amused expression fixed on her face and wondered if she was thinking the same thing about the course of her life. Well, the same thing with a Mossad twist: she was sipping expensive wine and listening to tales of physicians and babbling toddlers, instead of sipping even more expensive champagne and listening to the plots of arms dealers or terrorists or whoever it was she hung out with in those days. He wondered if she was bothered by the changes in her life any more than he was by the changes in his.

"The thing about being a pediatrician," Laurel was saying, finishing her story about the patient she had to see immediately before returning home, "is that you have these amazingly adorable patients who are actually quite simple to take care of—they usually have one medical problem, you treat it, and they go home relatively healthy. The problem is that you have to deal with the parents, and parents are idiots." As if on cue, they heard a wailing scream from upstairs, prompting her to sigh. "Present company included, of course."

"Speak for yourself," Shmuel said, taking a sip of wine and waiting for the offending to child to show herself. "I'm brilliant."

"Oh?" Laurel asked, cocking an eyebrow in a challenge. "So I suppose you want to deal with this one?"

"I can tell you now what the deal is," he said, almost boasting. "Any second now, Tamar will come down the stairs crying about Elan hitting her because of something Lilah said." Sure enough, a small girl with honey blond hair and dark brown eyes, already puffy with tears, entered the dining room and went straight to her mother's side, her words so distorted by her sobs that DiNozzo wasn't sure what language she was crying in.

Laurel sighed as she picked up the girl and set her on her lap. Despite her feigned impatience with her children, she tenderly smoothed her daughter's hair back and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "Sweetie, you know that if you hit Elan, he's going to hit you back," she said patiently before wiping the tears away. Tony felt almost like he was intruding on the moment and glanced away, looking over at Ziva, who was watching and wearing an expression he had absolutely no reference to use to begin to decipher.

"Well, that's new," Shmuel commented, not noticing the reactions of his two guests. "Usually Lilah's the one starting fights. Elan ends them by hitting Tamar, who instead of fighting back goes crying to me or Laurel. He figures that since they're identical, they're interchangeable."

"I think Lilah's been training Tamar. After all, you never know when she's going to need to defend herself against declarations of love from older boys." Laurel said that with a grin in Ziva's direction, which made Tony almost spit out his wine with surprised laughter. He hadn't expected for Laurel to know that story, or for it to come up in conversation so casually.

"I was ten. She was an eight-year-old girl and leveled me with one punch. It was hardly my proudest moment," Shmuel commented, rolling his eyes. Ziva gave a deep chuckle before Rubenstein turned to Tony. "So you've heard the story, too?"

"I did not know he would ever be meeting you," Ziva said as a way of apology.

"How did that come up, anyway?" Tony asked, trying to remember. "We were in Observation, I know that. And I remembered wondering what you would do if I told you that I liked you." He grinned.

"I probably would have knocked you out with one punch as well," Ziva deadpanned, much to the Rubensteins' amusement.

"Well, we still have that pie, if anyone's up for dessert," Laurel said after a moment of silence.

"You stay there with Tamar. I'll get it," Shmuel offered, rising from the table.

"I'll help," Tony added, following him. He gave Ziva a wide grin at the puzzled expression she wore.

Seeing as he didn't know where anything in the kitchen was, he found himself just standing there as the geneticist served up several slices of still-warm apple pie, larger slices onto real plates and smaller ones on brightly colored and indestructible plastic plates with pictures of superheroes. "If you want ice cream or whipped cream on yours, we have some," Rubenstein offered. Tony waved off the offer.

"Thanks, but after that chicken dinner, that's not exactly kosher." Rubenstein looked amused, which prompted Tony to add, "Occupational hazard." He didn't feel like explaining that last mission and exactly how much instruction into Jewish living he had been given.

"If you're not here to help, I'm assuming you're here to talk," the physician said, now giving DiNozzo his full attention. "Well?"

It took him a moment to figure out what to say, and before he managed to form the words, an uneasy chuckle escaped his lips. He remembered that look on Ziva's face as Laurel was comforting Tamar, and while he still didn't know what it was supposed to mean, he had his suspicions. "Those genetic tests that you ran on Ziva," he began before pausing again, uneasy. "I need you to run those on me."

Shmuel studied him for a moment before nodding. "We're taking off in the Gulfstream at 0900 tomorrow," he stated, which he knew that Tony already knew. "Be at my office at 0700. We'll draw the blood and meet the others at the Mossad airstrip." He grabbed three plates of pie before nodding meaningfully to the others. "It's going to look suspicious if you came in here to help and leave empty-handed."


	28. Chapter 28

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 28**

* * *

Ziva David held up a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she watched the approach of the airport vehicle toward her father's Gulfstream. With the bright glare, she could barely make out two shadowy figures, but even without that, knew it had to be Tony and Shmuel. After their morning run—she was frustrated that she could still only do about five kilometers, but figured that it would be best not to push her recovery—Tony had quickly showered and changed, telling her that Shmuel needed help getting stuff from his office to the plane, and that he would meet her there. She wouldn't have minded so much if he hadn't left his sea bag, complete with the NCIS gear, for her to deal with.

Judging from just how much both the NCIS field agent and geneticist grabbed from the trunk of the car to get onto the Gulfstream, however, she could see why Shmuel needed help. Clearly the man had no experience with covert ops; someone was going to have to talk to him about packing appropriately. He had two large suitcases, at least two computers, a bag that likely contained medical journals, and a box of something that Ziva couldn't begin to guess. She wondered just how long he planned on being in Vienna.

"Hey," Tony greeted with a smile, interrupting her from her reverie. "Is all of our stuff on the plane?"

"Yes," she replied with a nod. "We are still waiting for my father and Officer Zirwas. They said they have business that must be taken care of at the office before we can leave."

He frowned at the wording. "Your father does a lot of business."

"He is the director of Mossad, Tony. What do you expect?" she snapped.

"I guess that's a good point," he replied. She frowned briefly at his lack of an equally-snappy comeback but turned her attention elsewhere. She wasn't in the mood for an argument; the Gulfstream wasn't large enough for either of their methods of getting it out of their systems. She didn't figure the other passengers would appreciate listening to them yell at each other, and wasn't nearly enough of an exhibitionist for their other option.

Barely five minutes had passed before her father's car pulled up to the plane, the driver quickly scurrying around the vehicle to open the door for the director. He stepped out, sunglasses firmly in place, his light-weight tan suit nicely pressed, his BlackBerry in hand. He barely acknowledged anyone else as he stepped onto the plane, Aaron Zirwas at his heels, prattling on about something that she doubted her father cared about. "I guess it's time to go," Tony finally said, breaking the silence that had fallen over the group.

"Yes," she replied. She stepped onto the Gulfstream and didn't look back.

---

Dr. Shmuel Rubenstein glanced up from his laptop, rolling his neck slightly to try to work out the kinks. When he had drastically reduced his patient load after taking his current position, he decided to fill the extra time with strengthening his CV with academic and research entries. He had been accepted as a peer-reviewer for three clinical genetics journals, subscribed to five others, increased his time in his lab, and occasionally gave a random lecture at the medical school. With the extra time for research, he found extra time for publications, which certainly wouldn't hurt when he would find himself in need for a new job in three years, after his obligation to Mossad was fulfilled. Right now, he was working on the case report of the most interesting case of his career to date - an Ashkenazi-Mizrahi Jewish male diagnosed with Adult Polyglucosan Body Disease. Obviously, every identifying feature had been removed, and the article wouldn't be ready for submission until after the autopsy, but there was no harm in starting early. He wondered if he should include Ziva's genetic test results, just for completeness sake. He frowned; if Ziva found out, he would be dead for sure. Of course, in order for her to find out, she would have to figure out the de-identified data and would probably need a few courses in genetics to understand the article. He'd think about it later.

He was just finishing entering what he had from the reports of the biweekly mental status exams—the director was showing only very early signs of dementia, not unlike that of the average male of his age. The issue was, it was a change from the time of diagnosis a year ago, a slow but steady decline in mental function. He frowned and added a note to himself to check with a statistician familiar with that particular exam if the changes were statistically significant; was the decline more rapid than one would expect of an average male nearing 70? Maybe Dr. Nurick had someone on his staff he could run the numbers with. That task complete, he leaned back in his chair to stretch his muscles and glanced around the passenger area of the Gulfstream, giving his eyes anything but his laptop screen to focus on. Director David was reading through something, probably an intelligence briefing, while Officer Zirwas sat quietly next to him, appearing to read something similar. Figuring that there were quite a few of those that had to be read, Rubenstein wouldn't be surprised if one of Zirwas' jobs was to go through them and pick out anything important.

Tony and Ziva were on the other side of the plane, seated facing each other with a table between them. They were playing some sort of game with a deck of cards, but he figured that might just be a cover; guessing from the looks on their faces, their softly-spoken conversation had nothing to do with spades or diamonds. Ziva kept shooting dangerous and almost disgusted glances over at Zirwas, which the younger man was trying unsuccessfully to ignore; even while studying his paperwork, he looked like he would rather be anywhere but in that plane with three other very obviously armed people. Shmuel couldn't decide if the look on Tony's face was amusement or annoyance at Ziva's methods of scaring the young Mossad officer.

Now, there was a relationship he was sure he would never understand, and was sure that they couldn't fully understand, either. They both obviously loved and cared for each other, but neither seemed all that comfortable with that thought. He knew Ziva's upbringing; that was hardly a surprise. He wondered if Tony's was any better. He wondered if their line of work, or even the fact that they had been coworkers and friends before they were lovers, was to blame. No matter the cause, the fact that both of them was choosing to ask for genetic testing, without the other knowing, was enough to tell Rubenstein that they both had doubts about the relationship; rather, they both had doubts about how the other felt about the relationship.

Deciding that speculating about the nature of their relationship would be easier up close, instead of several meters away on a Gulfstream, he rose from his seat and walked forward. "Do you mind if I join you?"

Both Tony and Ziva glanced up from their cards for only a second before their eyes returned to the game. "Sure," DiNozzo said, gesturing to the empty seat next to him. "Have a seat." The two continued their game, something involving four piles of cards that both were playing on to. "Ha!" Tony declared, slapping a card down a second before Ziva could. "I'm going to beat you this time."

"It has not happened yet," Ziva shot back.

"That's not fair. I taught you how to play this game while my arm was in a cast. You're taking advantage of my injury."

"Learning to identify and taking advantage of my targets' weaknesses was part of my training."

"I'm your boyfriend, not a target," he replied before adding another card to the pile. "I'm out of moves."

"As am I." Both turned over a card from one of the outside piles onto the middle, and there was another flurry of activity.

"What is this game?" Rubenstein finally asked.

"Speed," Tony replied, sounding slightly distracted as he studied the cards in his hands. "Requires two good hands, which is why she keeps winning. Or maybe it's just the Army ranks on the cards throwing me off."

"They are your cards," Ziva reminded him. "Why _do_ you have cards with Army ranks?"

"They were Gracy's," he explained. At her confused expression, he elaborated, "That stakeout about six weeks into her three month stay? You were teamed up with Gibbs, I was with Gracy. On the night shift. We kept ourselves awake by playing cards. Strip poker, mostly." He grinned. She rolled her eyes. Shmuel continued to be confused.

"I would be more likely to believe you if you said you played strip poker with McGee," Ziva scoffed.

"Why? Gracy was an attractive woman."

"I am not denying that. But she was attracted to Gibbs."

"Yeah, what's with that? He's what, seventeen years older than she is?"

Ziva shrugged before adding another card to the pile. "Some women like men who are mature and act like adults," she said dryly.

"Ha," he replied, just as dry. "I'm out of cards. I win. And if she liked him so much, why'd she leave for Hawaii?"

"Because those were her orders." Shmuel figured by the subtle change in Tony's expression that that was in inside conversation. Ziva turned to him. "Would you like us to change games so you can play?"

"No, I'm fine," he declined. "I should go back to my work anyway. I was just taking a brief break." He had learned enough from those couple of minutes listening to their conversation about their coworker—former coworker?—to realize something about their relationship; mostly, that he would never understand their relationship. They had an easy comfort with each other, a way of communicating using more than just words, as well as a confidence in each other that went beyond a normal work-partner relationship, or even a normal romantic relationship. In some ways, that comfort was more than he would expect from couples who had been married for years. He just wasn't sure if they would be able to completely transition their relationship from one of coworkers to lovers - or, more precisely, coworkers who were also lovers.

He returned to his seat and again brought up the article he was working on writing. He glanced over at Director David, still reading his intelligence briefings, and Officer Zirwas, still trying to avoid Ziva's glares as he did his own reading. Tony and Ziva had dealt another game of Speed and were slapping down cards amidst conversations Rubenstein and the other men in the plane were not privy to. He smiled slightly and shook his head, and then began going through the pathology slides he had on his computer to find the one nerve biopsy picture that best demonstrated the extent of Adult Polyglucosan Body Disease.


	29. Chapter 29

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 29**

* * *

Tony DiNozzo supposed he should be glad that the hospital's HR person, or whoever she was, spoke English, but to be honest, he wouldn't have felt any less lost—or any more bored—had she been speaking German. He glanced over at Dr. Shmuel Rubenstein and saw the glazed look of the dark eyes under his glasses and realized he wasn't the only one who felt that way. He was sure it was worse on the physician; it wasn't his first trip to that hospital, and certainly not his first orientation at a healthcare facility.

The hospital where Dr. Nurick had been treating Director David seemed to be better described as a sprawling compound in the rolling foothills of the Alps, not far outside Vienna, Austria. It was the type of place that one could tell, just by the first glance, catered to the incredibly rich and possibly famous. Not only did it have its own helipad, it had its own landing strip, and they apparently had a customs agent on retainer, negating the need for Mossad's Gulfstream to fly into the international airport nearby. The dour Austrian had frowned at DiNozzo's American passport, so different from the Israeli ones of the other passengers, but didn't comment as he flipped through to find an empty page on which to stamp. He handed it back without a single word spoken.

After the lecture from the HR woman—she had referred to her position as a _guest relations specialist_—they decided to get settled before doing anything else, and one of David's drivers escorted them to their respective accommodations. Dr. Rubenstein was to stay in the spare bedroom of Director David's hospital villa, whereas Zirwas was staying at an adjoinging safe house next to Tony and Ziva less than a kilometer from the hospital. "Well, it could be worse," Tony said as he collapsed into a chair while Ziva did a security check on the already-secured townhouse. "We could be in the _same_ safe house as Zirwas."

"Why my father chose him as an aide is beyond me," Ziva commented bitingly. "The house is secure."

"Now, there's a surprise," he muttered as he rose and picked up his bag to carry to the bedroom, where he unpacked for the second time in two weeks. He remembered fondly the days when he would just live out of a suitcase and leave his stuff around the room; his time as Agent Afloat had changed that for him. There was nothing more annoying than to have your stuff move around with the currents.

His luggage now properly stowed, he sat on the bed and immediately frowned. "Well, that's a disappointment," he mused. "After the comfortable king-sized bed in your father's apartment, and now we get this? A lumpy, uneven queen? And does this place even have air conditioning, because I know how you like air conditioning—." He stopped talking when Ziva's hand clamped over his mouth.

"Not now, Tony," she snapped. "We need to stop by and see my father before dinner." A teasing glint appeared in her eyes. "And then we will see just how uncomfortable that bed is."

"Why wait?" he asked lightly, his hand resting on her hip. "We can just—"

"Only if you want to skip dinner," she interrupted.

"Okay, bad idea. Let's go." He rose from the bed to the sounds of Ziva's chuckle behind him. Quick visit to Ziva's father, and then maybe he'd be able to convince her to visit that pizza place they drove by on the way to the safe house. He was pretty sure it wouldn't be as good as his neighborhood pizza place, but after remaining kosher for two weeks, he'd settle for anything with pepperoni.

---

Director Eli David waited five minutes after Ziva and Agent DiNozzo left his hospital villa before he called his aide. "_Shalom_, Aaron," he said. He didn't even wait for a response before continuing. "Ziva and Agent DiNozzo have left to eat dinner. I informed them that they do not need to see me again tonight, and they will not. Now would be a good time."

"_Yes, Director_," Officer Zirwas replied. "_Is there anything you need, sir?_"

"No. I expect you here in fifteen minutes." He hung up the phone before Zirwas had the opportunity to respond.

Almost fifteen minutes on the spot later, David heard a light knocking on the door. "Enter," he called out in Hebrew, his hand inching toward his weapon in case it had been anyone but Aaron. He relaxed at the familiar sight of the blond officer. "Come, have a seat," he offered, gesturing toward the chair. "We have much to discuss."

"Yes, Director," Aaron replied with a nod as he gingerly placed himself in the plush chair. "I spoke to your secretary earlier today and informed her that you will continue to be on leave. The appointments that could not be covered by Deputy Director Ruthven have been postponed indefinitely."

"Good," David replied with a nod, even though he considered the conversation a waste of time. Aaron was not a secretary and should not be concerned with such tasks. "I fear that your trip to Austria might have been a waste," he said, his voice carefully modulated. "I will not be conducting business here, as very few know that I am in the country."

"Do not worry, Director," Aaron replied. "I will find a way to keep myself occupied."

---

Tony was wrong. The Mossad safe house did have air conditioning.

When Ziva woke gradually, the dim pre-dawn light entering from the window, there was just a feeling of… completeness at the moment, something she didn't know if she had ever felt before. Aside from the orientation to the hospital—the same orientation she had received the year before, when she traveled to Austria with her father after his diagnosis—everything had gone smoothly. Tony was being his usual joking self, from the comments about the bed to the request for extra pepperoni on his pizza. She snickered softly. She supposed it had been cruel of her not to inform him that _Peperoni _on the menu was actually peppers, not spiced pork sausage, but the crestfallen look on his face had made it worth it. Fortunately for him, she liked this _Peperoni_ and, knowing that he would make that mistake, had ordered a pizza that would be more to his liking - with extra _Salami_ - and traded with him when their orders arrived. His eyes had narrowed in that way that they did when he was scrutinizing her as he realized that she had done that intentionally, but the joke had set a light mood for the entire meal. That general lightness had extended through a stroll around the small village—the Austrian version of a suburb—on their way back to the safe house. It was one of those walks where neither had anywhere they needed to be; they weren't in a hurry and they knew it, a rarity for them. Everything had been calm and slow, from their pace to the light contact between them—an arm around a shoulder or a waist, fingers brushing together leading to grasped hands, a joking poke to the midsection, a tickle—and they were still relaxed when they returned to the safe house, the unhurried atmosphere taking the form of warm kisses, languid removal of clothes, and murmured words of love and affection. For the first time in what seemed like a long time, there was no rush, no need, no anger in their lovemaking, just two people who were glad to have each other in their lives and wanted to take the time to show it.

It had been a perfect evening, one that reminded her what exactly it was that caused her to fall in love with him in the first place, and she could only hope that it would lead to a perfect morning.

At the moment, she was wrapped securely in the down comforter, fully aware that more of the blanket was on her side of the bed than Tony's and not bothered by that fact in the least—if he were awake to rectify that situation, he would—listening to the quiet rattle of the air conditioner and the low snores coming from her partner's mouth. He was lying on his side, facing her, and it never ceased to amaze her how many positions he could sleep in. Most people preferred one side or the other, or the stomach or back, but he could fall asleep just about any way he could lie down.

Without really knowing why, she reached out, running her fingers over the stubble of his cheeks, and not surprisingly, his eyes opened at the touch, then closed again. "What time is it?" he grumbled.

"I do not know," she admitted softly. "I just woke up."

"Mmm." He didn't say anything further, but she knew he hadn't fallen back asleep. She knew if she waited long enough—"Waking me up for a reason?"

She chuckled low in her throat, knowing what he was referring to. "Not necessarily."

"Hmm." She laughed again and scooted closer to him, feeling his arms close around her obligingly. She again gently traced his jaw with her fingers before closing the distance between their lips. The kiss was long and warm and deep and not really going anywhere, which was why she wasn't disappointed when they separated, their foreheads resting against each other, Tony's hand knotted in her hair at the nape of her neck. "I really do like the new haircut," he murmured, still not fully awake. "And I like the curls. It looks good when you straighten it, too, but… I like the curls."

"You do not think it is too short?"

He shook his head, his eyes again closed. "It reminds me of when we met," he informed her, "when you were slouching provocatively in McGee's chair. You're a damned sexy woman, David." She chuckled at his words and moved herself into a more comfortable position, one arm resting on his chest, the other loosely draped over his hips, their feet intertwined. The way both valued their space, it wasn't often that they slept like this, but when they did, it brought Ziva a feeling of comfort she couldn't quite explain.


	30. Chapter 30

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 30**

* * *

Officer Aaron Zirwas woke up at the same time every day, at 0430, regardless of where in the world he was or how many time zones he had crossed, and that morning was no exception. He went through his normal routine of going to the bathroom, brushing his teeth, changing into his workout clothes, and going through his calisthenics—one hundred pushups, two hundred full military situps, fifty squats, and fifty lunges on each leg. He hesitated at the door before leaving for his usual twelve kilometer run. The last thing he wanted to do was run into Officer David and Agent DiNozzo, staying in the adjoining townhouse. Knowing that Officer David's training had been even more stringent than his own, he figured that she, and possibly both of them, would be up soon for their own runs. Then again, there was the possibility that some of the rumors around Mossad were true and that Officer David had become weak in her time in America. Somehow, though, after meeting the former _metsada_ operative, he doubted it. He squared his shoulders in determination after that last thought. He was a Mossad officer. He was not going to let anybody, not even another Mossad officer, scare him out of his usual morning routine. Besides, what would she do to him? Glare? Surely she wouldn't shoot her father's aide simply because she found him annoying.

Twelve kilometers later, he was again unlocking the door to the townhouse, having successfully completed his run without sight of Officer David or Agent DiNozzo. He had remembered about halfway through his run that she had only recently had a fracture cast removed from her ankle; perhaps she wasn't yet back to her full routine, whatever that had been. He mentally shrugged as he stepped into the shower; it was no concern of his.

He dressed that morning conservatively—not quite what he would have worn for a typical day at work, but hardly sloppy, either. His hair still militarily short, he barely had to run his palm over the top of his head before declaring it done. The sun, by this time, was fully in the sky, bright in the cloudless sky, prompting him to slip his sunglasses over his eyes before again stepping out of the townhouse. He paused just outside the door to deeply inhale the clean mountain air, something he didn't get to experience often in Israel, before setting out.

He intentionally arrived five minutes late, to avoid any unnecessary questions or small talk at the beginning of the meeting, and took a seat near the back. A few people glanced over at him, but nobody said anything about his presence. He blended right in, with his blond hair and blue eyes, and the small group of men seemed more interested in the emphatic words of Austrian German being spoken at the front of the room than with the sudden appearance of a new person.

Just as he intentionally arrived late, he intentionally loitered at the end of the meeting, waiting to be approached and questioned. He didn't have to wait long. He had barely served himself a cup of coffee before the man who had been speaking, a tall, well-built, obviously Aryan man, introduced himself. "Klaus Öggl," he said, "and you are?"

"Heinrich Enderlin," Zirwas replied, the name rolling smoothly off his tongue. He had been born in Schwäbisch Hall in southern Germany and lived there until his family moved to Israel when he was eleven, and he could still speak German with that accent. "I am here on business and was told that I should stop by."

Öggl nodded. "You aren't from around here." It was a statement, not a question, and Zirwas treated it as such.

"No," he replied, taking a sip of the coffee. He barely restrained the impulse to make a face. He didn't understand how Europeans and Americans could drink the harsh beverage as they did. "I lived outside Stuttgart in childhood."

"And where do you live now?"

Zirwas glanced around before returning Öggl's gaze. "Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere more… private."

The tall Austrian seemed to take that as an insult. "Everyone here can be trusted," he said harshly, drawing himself to his full height, which was already several centimeters taller than Zirwas. The Mossad officer schooled his features to remain appearing unimpressed, although he had to cover his nervous swallow with another sip of coffee.

"You may trust them," he replied, once he felt his voice had been properly restored. "But I do not know them. I have many enemies who do not realize that they are enemies, and I would like them to remain in the dark."

Öggl narrowed his light eyes, clearly trying to decipher the newcomer's meaning. He seemed to decide that he didn't like it. "I have no business to discuss with one who does not understand the binds of true brotherhood."

Zirwas gave a harsh chuckle. "Oh, you are going to want to talk to me," he said in an almost mocking tone that Öggl didn't seem to appreciate. The taller man's eyes narrowed dangerously, but Zirwas resisted the urge to be intimidated; after all, he was currently carrying two weapons and knew how to use both. "I have some information that you are going to want, information that is only good from one _brother_ to another. I know from my friend's recommendation and your own words that you have spoken here this morning that you are to be trusted, but these other men," he gestured around the room, "them I do not know."

He kept his challenging gaze on Öggl's face and watched as the Austrian considered his words before nodding harshly to the door. Zirwas nodded in return and followed him outside. They were barely half a block away from the old church where the meeting had been held before Öggl spoke again. "You have your privacy," he said, sounding fairly displeased about that. "Now speak. What is this information you have for me?"

Zirwas took another few steps, hoping his expression didn't give away the fact that his heart was pounding in fear. _If they find out what I am doing…_ He didn't allow himself to finish that thought, knowing what the outcome would be. But sometimes risks must be taken for what is right. "The director of Mossad," he finally said. He glanced at Öggl out of the corner of his eye. "He is here, just outside of Vienna."

The taller man gave an angry and particularly vile curse about Jews in general. "And how did you come about this information?" he demanded. Zirwas raised an eyebrow.

"I am the director's aide," he replied calmly. He saw Öggl's eyes fly open in surprise and could practically hear him trying to figure out where that piece of information fit in. "They know me as Aaron Zirwas, a German-born Jew and trained officer of Mossad. I have the ear of Director Eli David and am privy to his private information."

"You have his trust?"

Zirwas barked out a laugh. "His daughter does not have his trust," he said derisively. "He trusts no one but himself."

Öggl seemed to consider that before nodding slightly. "How do I know I can trust you?" Zirwas shrugged.

"You don't," he replied. "But my information is good."

"I have no proof of that."

"If you do not want my information, I will take it to someone who does."

Öggl studied him further. His eyes dropped to Zirwas' chest, and for a second, the Mossad officer wondered if he was trying to figure out exactly where to stab him to do the most damage. But then he saw a change in the taller man's expression as he registered something, barely a shadow under Zirwas' shirt on his left chest, right over his heart. He made a motion to move aside the shirt to get a better look at the swastika tattoo, but Zirwas angrily swatted his hand away.

"What do you think you are doing?" he hissed. "I told you, I have the ear of the director. That is not something Mossad takes lightly. I am likely being observed by the director's private security, and if they see something that they do not like, they will not hesitate to put bullets in both of our heads."

"So what do they think this is?" Öggl asked snidely. "A pleasant stroll between acquaintances?"

"They know that I am from Europe," Zirwas said, "and so they will assume you are someone I knew from childhood. You were chosen specifically because you have not made waves. You have not advertised your beliefs to the media like many other true believers. You do not have tattoos in visible places. There were many others I could have spoken to who are better than you, but your involvement in necessary for those reasons."

Öggl considered that piece of information, sorting between the insult of not being the best and the fact that he was discrete. Zirwas could practically see the second that the Austrian decided he could trusted. "What is he doing in Austria? And how was that information not made public?"

"It is not a public trip," Zirwas explained. "He is here with his daughter and her boyfriend. The director's grandparents were Austrian. He wanted to show his daughter what that meant."

Öggl gave a quick barking laugh, a strange sound that was somewhere between amusement and disgust. "So the Jew master has brought his Jewess daughter and her Jew lover."

Zirwas smiled coldly. "Oh, no, the boyfriend is not Jewish," he said, keeping disgust in his own voice. "He is American, of Italian descent, and Catholic."

Öggl grunted at that piece of information. Although he didn't have the same disrespect for Catholics as he did for Jews, they were hardly his favorite people. "They do not know how to keep to themselves, do they?" he asked rhetorically. They walked several more steps in silence before he spoke again. "Why are you telling me this? What do you want me to do?"

Zirwas nodded slightly. "Director David's schedule has not been set at this point," he said, "so I cannot tell you where he will be at a given time. But I will have that information, soon." He walked a few more steps. "I will be in contact and will give you further instructions."

"Further instructions for what?"

Zirwas stopped walking, a frown on his face. "For assassination of Director David," he said, somewhat impatiently. "I thought that was obvious."

Öggl blinked in surprise but quickly recovered. "And the daughter and the boyfriend?"

Zirwas took a second to think about that before shrugging. "The world could only be a better place with one fewer Jewish seductress and her pawn. You can do with them whatever you want. Kill them both, I don't care." He held Öggl's gaze for a long moment before nodding almost imperceptibly. "I will be in touch." He walked away before Öggl could respond.


	31. Chapter 31

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 31**

* * *

Tony DiNozzo was studying the contents of the refrigerator when Ziva David descended the stairway, looking entirely too good at 0800 for someone who had already been up for a few hours and gone on a run. "Can you believe they didn't give us any bacon?" he complained as she took a seat at the kitchen bar. He turned to see her roll her eyes and gave her a wide grin. "I'm kidding. Do you want strawberries in your crepes?"

This time, the expression on her face was something akin to astonishment. "You are making crepes?"

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"I just did not think—yes, strawberries would be okay." He grinned as he spooned batter for another crepe into the pan.

"You just didn't think I knew how to make something as fancy as crepes," he joked, almost mockingly. "They're not hard."

"Well, I know that. I did not think you knew that. Your usual breakfasts consist of coffee and cold cereal, or just coffee. Or whatever you can get from the drive-through. Unless I am cooking. And then you eat whatever I make."

"I'm a man of many talents. There's whipped cream, too." He handed over a plate of crepes and strawberries as well as the whipped cream, which looked like it was probably the Austrian version of Cool Whip. "Coffee?"

"I could get used to this," she warned. "I will start making you take a shower first more often."

He chuckled as he took a bite of his own breakfast, knowing that it was an empty threat on her part. She liked to have the first shower after returning from their morning work-out, because it gave her the extra time to do her hair and make-up and everything, even though she could still get ready faster than he could even with doing all that. He didn't care enough to push the issue. The conversation changed to discussions of their plans for the day—mostly sightseeing, as Tony had never been to Vienna—as he continued to cook and they both continued to eat. Although the crepes were, in fact, very good, Ziva turned down an offer of a third, while Tony polished off five. She joined him in the kitchen to help cleaning. "I like this," he said out of the blue. He glanced over to see her fixing him with a puzzled expression and he explained, "This working in the kitchen together, living together... I like it."

She chuckled and shook her head slightly. "Just wait until we are both back on full duty with Gibbs," she said lightly. "Being around each other at home will not seem so enjoyable after we are around each other all day at work."

He felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, along with a strange feeling of relief that he couldn't quite explain. He knew he loved her, knew he was happier when he was around her, was pretty sure he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, but moving in? _Talk about commitment issues_, he thought, bitter at himself. Instead of saying anything, he just nodded his agreement to her words. "Yeah, you're probably right. It would be nice, though."

She smiled and kissed him. "It is nice," she agreed. "Now, what would you like to see first?"

"You naked?" he called out as she began walking toward the door. She only laughed in response as she began to lace her shoes to head out for the day.

---

It ended up being a whirlwind day of museums and castles, and not for the first time, Tony began to resent Ziva's endless energy and enthusiasm. He was done after the first museum, but Ziva kept mentioning "one more thing" that he should see. He vowed that the next time they vacationed together, he would set the agenda.

Ziva was buying a book of piano music at some Mozart museum when her phone rang. She didn't even bother glancing at the display before answering, handing her credit card over to the clerk as she did so. "David," she said in her usual no-nonsense tone. She listened for a moment and absently signed the receipt before speaking again, this time in the harsh tones of German. With a final _auf wiedersehen_, she hung up the phone and turned to Tony. "That was Dr. Nurick," she informed him. "My father had a seizure in the MRI machine. We should go back to the hospital."

"Yeah," he replied with a nod. He was tempted to ask if he could drive—the BMW that Mossad provided looked pretty nice—but figured she would want to get there as quickly as possible, which meant that she would be driving. He reluctantly took the passenger seat and buckled up.

After a very quick and hair-raising drive to the hospital, they headed for Director David's villa, where Drs. Nurick and Rubenstein were waiting. The antithesis to Shmuel, Dr. Nurick was short and stubby, the little bit of hair he had left entirely white. He didn't bother making introductions when they came in, just launching into a lengthy explanation in German. Although he couldn't begin to decipher what the physician was saying, Ziva was nodding her understanding, so Tony figured she would explain it to him later. "Can I see him now?" Ziva asked in English once Dr. Nurick was done. He nodded and said something in German as he led them into the room.

"They were able to finish the MRI of Director David's brain before the seizure began," Dr. Rubenstein said to Tony in a low voice, paraphrasing the conversation between Ziva and Dr. Nurick as they hung back near the door. "There's an area in the right temporal lobe that is visibly damaged by the polyglucosan bodies, and that's what they believe is the focus of the seizures."

"Is there anything that can be done?" Shmuel hesitated before answering.

"If this one area was his only medical problem, he would probably be prepping for brain surgery right now," he finally answered. "However, with the totality of the polyglucosan damage, his risks of dying on the table are too high, and for an uncertain gain. He's been stabilized from this event already, so now it's a matter of getting an anti-seizure medication regimen that works."

"How long does he have?" He asked the question with a low tone, not wanting Ziva to overhear, even though he was pretty sure she was wondering the same thing. Dr. Rubenstein shrugged.

"A week? A month? It's very difficult to say. In the words of one of my professors at Columbia, God isn't on service this month." He smiled thinly and shrugged. "No doctor is very good at estimating how long one has to live."

"Will he ever leave the hospital?" Again, Rubenstein shrugged.

"To walk around the grounds, there's a good chance. To sight-see in Vienna, it's possible. To return to Tel Aviv and go to work in his office? Doubtful."

"Why doesn't he just resign?" he muttered. He didn't direct that at Shmuel; he didn't even mean to speak it out loud, but Rubenstein answered anyway.

"He doesn't want people to know," he replied simply. "If you will excuse me, Tony, I have some things to discuss with Dr. Nurick." He gave an almost sad smile as he turned and followed the older physician from the room. Tony turned his attention to the dark-haired Mossad officer staring down at her father. Entering the room, he put an arm around her shoulder in a manner he hoped was comforting. He figured it might have helped as she leaned into the sideways embrace.

"Is it wrong that I am glad?" she asked, her voice low. She turned to him with a questioning look on her face, her eyes surprisingly clear. "If he does not recover, he does not get the chance to carry out this plan of his." Her laugh was completely without mirth. "I am wishing my father dead. I am sure that qualifies me for some level of hell."

"Do Jews have hell?" Tony asked before he could stop himself. Ziva didn't acknowledge the question, so he pushed it aside. "It's not wrong, Ziva. You're trying to protect him from himself. You're trying to protect your own country and several others from what this disease has made of him."

"Yes." She stared down at the still form on the bed again. This time, no one prompted her before she leaned down and gently kissed each of his cheeks. "_Shalom_, Papa."


	32. Chapter 32

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 32**

_A/N: Big day for me today... A graduation and a promotion at once. Life is good. Too bad it comes with tons of work and responsibility. I'm definitely enjoying all of this sitting around and doing nothing but writing fanfiction. Oh, and have you ever tried to iron doctoral robes? Not easy._

* * *

To everyone's surprise, Director Eli David not only recovered from the seizure in the MRI machine, he responded quickly to the anti-seizure medication that Dr. Nurick prescribed, showing a remarkable improvement on his EEG and PET scans of the brain. It wasn't long before he was not only walking around the hospital gardens, but also discussing international political situations with Aaron Zirwas and beginning plans to return to Tel Aviv. Privately, Ziva was upset at this 'miraculous' improvement, but around everyone else, she appeared just as happy as they were. Only Tony saw through her facade, mostly because she voiced her complaints to him when they were alone.

Everything had been fairly predictable and routine since the seizure: they continued to get up early and go running, and then it would be breakfast, visiting her father in the hospital, lunch, and then the afternoons were 'their' time, spent either together at the safe house or seeing something else that Vienna had to offer before dinner and a repeat the next day. That particular afternoon was a safe house afternoon. Ziva occupied herself with an intelligence-gathering exercise, and Tony spent most of the time talking to people, either on the phone or via the webcam on his computer. The first phone call was to return a call from Gibbs. The beginning of the conversation mostly consisted of half-apologies and excuses on Tony's part—Agent Stan Burley had been trying to get hold of them the day before about the Bescan case on the _Ramage_, but their cell phones had been out of service, prompting Burley to call Gibbs and fill him in. Gibbs didn't know that Tony and Ziva had left Tel Aviv and were now in Vienna, and Ziva could hear his yelling about 'rule three' and keeping Gibbs in the loop from where she sat on the other side of the living room. The solution to that case ended up being rather simple: Bescan had been pregnant, DNA confirmed that the kid was Chief Moore's. The chief had promptly confessed; Bescan tried to convince him to leave the Navy so they could be together—she still had a few more years to pay back from her medical school education—he wanted no part of that, they fought about it, things got out of hand and he bashed the back of her head in. Lt. Christian had been nervous while Tony questioned him because he had seen blood on Chief Moore's arm and had been conflicted between coming forward and protecting his men. It was a classic case of a crime of passion combined with an officer thinking he was doing the right thing for his sailors.

Ziva had no idea what the next call was about—she figured he was calling someone in Europe, because he kept asking for people who spoke English, and she could practically feel his frustration at not being able to communicate well. That call ended with a somewhat sarcastic, "Thank you," before he hung up the phone.

The last call had been to Abby, who practically required conversations via webcam—she claimed the phone was far too impersonal, and Tony was often quick to do what Abby asked, as if he were the older brother and she were the spoiled little sister. He had murmured something about leaving her alone to her work before giving her a quick kiss and taking his computer upstairs. She had nodded and replied with something even she didn't understand, her attention still on her own computer and the information it contained. She didn't bother trying to hide what she was looking into from him; he couldn't read Hebrew anyway.

Once she found everything she felt there was to find, she wandered upstairs to see if Tony was still talking to Abby. She found him sitting on the bed in their room with the computer on his lap. He looked up when she walked in and grinned. She knew that look, and apparently, Abby did too, because she heard a very enthusiastic "Ziva!" coming from the computer.

"Hello, Abby," she said calmly. She took up position behind Tony and rested her chin on his shoulder. "And McGee," she added when she realized that the forensic scientist wasn't alone.

"I like the haircut," McGee said with a nod. There was a brief period of silence in the conversation.

"You're such a McGirl," Tony finally said. Ziva frowned.

"You noticed," she pointed out.

"Well, yeah," Abby said. "He's supposed to notice. It's bad form if the boyfriend doesn't say something."

"Besides," Tony told her, "you told me you were going to get a haircut. It would have been _really_ bad form if I didn't say something after that."

"I told you?" Ziva asked with a frown, trying to remember that conversation. She had fished the keys from Tony's pocket and said something, but she could have sworn she had been speaking Hebrew. She mentally shrugged; she had been speaking so many different languages over the last couple of weeks that she couldn't be sure of anything she said anymore. She decided it wasn't worth further conversation and turned back to the computer. "How is DC?" she asked.

"Fine," Abby said quickly, "although Gibbs is even more Gibbs-like than usual and Tomblin and Sopko are _really_ getting on my nerves. You guys need to come back, like, yesterday."

"They're not that bad," McGee countered, but it sounded a bit weak.

"McGee!" Abby scolded. "They're terrible! Sopko is all meek and hesitant about _everything_, and I don't think she's made it a single crime scene without throwing up at some point. Or maybe she's just bulimic. She's _really _skinny—like, Lindsay Lohan skinny, which just looks gross, if you ask me. And Tomblin is still bringing all sorts of random stuff from crime scenes that doesn't have to do with anything, and she's always asking if there's anything she can do to help in the lab. As if I would let her do anything in Labby! She would probably break Major Mass Spec and then think that he's just acting up because he wants a promotion, and then she'd promote him to Lt. Colonel Mass Spec, which just doesn't work at all. Oh! We finished that 'dumped at a dump' case yesterday. All three petty officers went to the same high school. Apparently there was some sort of blood pact or something between them and the other guy and something went horribly wrong, so he killed them. And he worked at the dump, so he figured nobody would ever find them there and it would be the perfect crime." She shook her head, her pigtails flying. "Criminals are _so_ stupid."

"Which is a good thing," McGee added. She gave him a brief glare before returning her attention to the couple currently sitting in a safe house thousands of miles away.

"So when are you coming home?"

"We do not know yet, Abby," Ziva said, her voice soft. Abby's eyes widened as she realized her mistake.

"I am _so _sorry, Ziva! I got side-tracked with everything that's going on around here and completely forgot about why you weren't here. How's your dad?"

She didn't really know how to answer that one. "He has good days and bad," she finally said. "He recently had a seizure, but is again stable."

"How long does he have?" Abby asked, her voice low, as if afraid of being overheard. McGee looked like he wanted to say something to scold her for being inappropriate, but Ziva spoke first.

"They do not know," she said. "After the seizure, they said maybe a week. Now, it could be longer."

"And you guys are going to be gone until he dies?"

"Abby!"

"It is okay, McGee. Yes, Abby, I will be with my father until the end." She didn't tell them that the reason for that was to make sure he didn't try to find some way of framing Hamas or the PLO or someone else for his death. "I am not sure about Tony's plans."

"I'm here as long as you're here," he informed her. She gave him a small smile.

"That is _so sweet_," Abby crooned from the other side of the conversation. McGee rolled his eyes, but it was probably at Abby, not at them. "But even though that's really sweet and everything, I wish you would come back so we can send Tomblin and Sopko elsewhere." Her already pale face blanched even further. "Oh, God, Ziva, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make that sound like I hope your father dies soon—"

"It is fine, Abby," Ziva interrupted. "I know you did not mean it that way."

"Of course not," Abby assured her. "I would never wish anybody dead. I joke about it sometimes, but I'm only joking. Not as if I believe that wishing someone dead actually makes them die faster—they've done studies on that and have proven that there is no statistical correlation between wishing someone dead and them actually dying. They've also done studies on the opposite—well, kinda the opposite—on whether or not praying for someone actually prolongs their life, and they found that it did. It's not much, maybe like a day or two, but that's what they've found." She frowned. "Although it's been awhile since I've read that article and I've forgotten what exactly their research methods were, because other people have shown that just having a loved one by the bedside—"

"Abby," Ziva interrupted. She knew that this could be a rather a long monologue about scientific articles and religious beliefs if she didn't put a stop to it. "I need you to check on something for me."

"Sure," the goth scientist replied, instantly back on track. "Your wish is my command."

Ziva smiled thinly before speaking again. "I need you to look into someone's background. Aaron Zirwas." She spelled the last name. "He is a Mossad officer, an intelligence analyst promoted to aide to the director a year ago."

"What?" All three turned to face Tony, who was looking at Ziva with a questioning expression. "Seriously? Why are you so focused on this guy? Sure, he's not the most competent super-spy out there, but he seems relatively harmless. For Mossad, that is."

"Because something is not right, Tony," she said firmly. She turned back to the computer. "I did a preliminary search, and have found some inconsistencies in his background. I did not want to run this through official, or even unofficial channels, in Mossad and risk my query getting back to him."

"I'll get right on it," Abby promised. "Anything specific, or just whatever I can scrounge up?"

"Whatever you could get," Ziva replied with a nod. "And the searches do not need to be saved in the NCIS database." She gave the forensic scientist a significant look, which Abby responded to with a knowing nod. "I appreciate it, Abby."

"I'll get it to you as soon as I can. We're not really working on anything right now, which is why McGee is down here hiding from Gibbs—"

"I'm not hiding!"

"He's hiding," Abby confirmed. McGee just sighed. "Anything else you guys need me to do from here? I know you're not really working on anything, since you're on vacation, but there's one of those career enrichment things coming up in two days, so if I have something to do, maybe the director won't make me go."

"Sorry, Abs," Tony said with a grin. "Maybe you'll luck out and there'll be a killing spree at Quantico."

"One can only hope," Abby said with a sigh. "Okay. I'm sure you guys are all busy and have things to do and mountains to sing about. Tell the nuns I said hi."

"Will do, Abs. Thanks." They said their good-byes and disconnected. Ziva turned to Tony with a frown on her face.

"Are Abby's bowling nuns in Vienna on vacation?" she asked, confused.

"Huh? Oh. No. That was a _Sound of Music_ reference."

"Ah. Perhaps we should tell her that _Sound of Music _takes place in Salzburg, not Vienna."

"I think that would take far too long to explain to Abby."

She nodded her agreement. "Yes, perhaps you are correct." She sighed and repositioned herself to lean onto Tony's shoulder, and he responded by draping his arm around her. For a long moment, neither moved from this position, and Ziva tried not to think about how much she wished for the 'normalcy' of her life back in DC and how guilty she felt about the fact that she was wishing her father dead so she could get back to it.


	33. Chapter 33

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 33**

_A/N: Medical school is behind me forever! I am now Captain Sashile, MD (well, not really, because that's not my name, but you get the point). In case you can't tell, I'm very happy about that fact. Unfortunately, it means I now have one week to move the rest of my stuff from Columbus, OH to Washington, DC, finish buying furniture, and getting a whole bunch of little things taken care of before I start working eighty hours a week and begin neglecting all outside interests (including writing, sadly enough). *sigh*_

* * *

_Ziva David used her good arm to adjust the scarf over her head, keeping the small house in her peripheral vision as she did so. She shuffled slightly ahead, allowing her left arm to brush against the weapon concealed there at her hip, under the shapeless fabrics that made her indistinguishable from the broken old grandmothers shuffling around her. She never thought she'd be thankful for injuries, but they did make it easier to play the part. _

_She barely resisted the urge to get on the radio and call the whole thing off. It was a ridiculous mission anyway; they had achieved their objectives, at no small cost to her health, but that damned Russian idiot had said something about a frog, and that damned American partner had latched onto that and refused to let go. All Ziva wanted to do was go home, and she didn't mean in the 'comforts of Mommy's tender love' way. She had just gone to Moscow to see Raisa David before this mission began, and there were certainly no comforts of Mommy's tender love to be had there. There was only guilt and the deep, nagging feeling that she was not the daughter that Raisa wished could come see her. And then when she got back, she had the angry words of Jennifer Shepard to deal with, demanding to know where she had been and why she had gone. She had told the redhead that it wasn't any of her business, and they had fallen into an uneasy truce since then. Only six months after she had saved the life of the NCIS agent in Cairo, and she was sure she had already lost the trust Shepard had for her, which was fine; she didn't fully trust the American, either._

Focus_, she scolded herself. _Concentrate on the mission_. Once again, easier said than done. Her father had called her 'the sharp end of the spear', but at the moment, she felt about as sharp as the end of a Q-tip. She closed her eyes and counted to ten before opening them again. She didn't want to be in St. Petersburg; she wanted to be back home in Tel Aviv, in a hospital, surrounded by doctors and nurses speaking her language and doing all they could to heal her injuries. She knew she was lacking her usual ability to focus when the thought of doctors speaking Hebrew made her think about Shmuel Rubenstein. She hadn't seen her childhood friend since she was sixteen, when he was eighteen and leaving for New York for school, but her father had recently given her an update, seemingly out of the blue; he was still living in New York, doing an internal medicine residency at Yeshiva University Hospital. He got married during his third year of medical school, to a Jewish girl from Oregon who was in his class at Columbia Unversity College of Physicians and Surgeons. Eli David had seemed amused by that and said something about some American dating service—J-date? Was that what it had been called? Whatever it was, he had found the whole situation rather entertaining. She wondered if maybe instead of going back to Tel Aviv, she would be going to the States with Agent Shepard. Maybe she could convince her to drop her by New York. Then she could still be treated by a doctor who spoke her language._

_She frowned, again trying to get herself to focus on the building in front of her as she pretended to rearrange the wilted flowers in her cart. She had no idea what was with this recurring need to be seen by a doctor who spoke Hebrew. She spoke several languages with the fluency of a native—including Russian—and would normally be comfortable being treated by a doctor speaking any of those. Maybe the pain in her broken and dislocated shoulder was finally getting to her. Or maybe it was the sprained knee. Or even the assortment of bruises that decorated her torso and abdomen. _

_Another count to ten, this time in Russian, and she was again glancing around, pretending to look for potential customers who might be interested in purchasing half-dead flowers. Instead, she saw at least three men who could be nothing else but bodyguards. She was about to update Jen when she caught movement from one of the building's grubby windows. "Archangel to control, we have movement," she said into the radio._

"I see it, Archangel,"_she heard Shepard reply. She nodded slightly, her eye now fixed on that doorway and her left hand resting on the stock of her handgun, even as she tried to figure out what to do about the bodyguards. One would have been no problem, injuries or no. Two could have been handled, but would have been better if she had full use of both hands for shooting. Three bodyguards and a target, with one weapon in her non-dominant hand? Doubtful. She didn't know what the deal was with this arms dealer, but as soon as their previous target had said something about it, Shepard refused to consider the mission complete until she had more information. Ziva suspected that American partner was going off book, but didn't say anything about it. The redhead knew already how she felt about the mission; she had certainly made that known as the slight woman had struggled to set her shoulder._

_"Control, this is Archangel," she said again. "Confirm three bodyguards."_

_"_Negative, Archangel,_" came the reply. "_Target does not travel with extra heat._"_

_"Well, he does today!" she snapped. "Control, abort mission! Risks are too high for uncertain gains."_

_"_Negative!_" Shepard snapped back. "_We need this, Archangel._"_

_She opened her mouth to reply that it wasn't _Shepard's_ head that would surely be pierced by a bodyguard's bullet, but paused as the door to the house opened, revealing their target. This couldn't be right. The man she was looking at was clearly dead. Sure, he was standing, and walking, but he had the bloated look of someone who had been floating in the river for a long period of time, and there was no missing the fact that he was missing half of his skull. "Jen, abort mission!" There was no response from the radio, and for some reason, she just knew that her friend was dead as well._

_One of the bodyguards stepped forward, and Ziva stiffened as she heard the unmistakable _*click_* of the hammer of a pistol. She turned slowly to see him pointing the weapon at her and gasped as his familiar features came into view. "This is your fault," he said, speaking to her in unaccented American English. She knew she wasn't supposed to know that face, or that voice, but she did, she knew it and could hear it just as clearly as if he had speaking directly into her ear. Somehow, she knew what that felt like, too: the breath from his lips against her cheek as he said something that was meant only for her, the laugh in his voice, the way he rested his hand on her arm, or her shoulder. This time, though, there was no laughter, his words dripping with contempt. "This is your fault," he repeated, "if you had taken the shot, if you hadn't been so goddamned cowardly and so concerned with your own neck, I wouldn't have gotten wrapped up in Jenny's personal agenda, wouldn't have met Jeanne, wouldn't have lost a year on a damned undercover mission that was so secretive I couldn't even tell you about it. You wouldn't look at me and doubt how I feel because of what happened years ago. I wouldn't be so damned afraid of saying something or doing something that is going to send you running away screaming. Everything that is wrong between us is _all your fault_."_

_She gasped at the cold words and the dark look in his usually-light green eyes before he turned away, his gaze and his Sig now fixed on the obviously dead man standing before him. "Tony!" she shouted, but he acted as if he hadn't heard her. He didn't even flinch when he pulled the trigger, giving Rene Benoit a second hole through the head to match the first._

---

Tony DiNozzo woke suddenly at the gasp that escaped from the lips of the woman in bed next to him, and the next thing he knew, she was in his arms, her skin in a sheen of sweat despite the chill from the air conditioner, her heart still racing. "Ziva," he said gently, pushing back her hair, kissing her temple. "Ziva, it's okay. It's over. It's okay."

He slowly felt her start to relax, and after what seemed like hours, her eyes finally opened and fixed on his. "Tony," she said, almost sounding surprised to see him there.

"I'm here," he said gently, holding her close. "It was just a dream." He felt her nod and curl up closer to him. "Do you want to talk about it?" he finally asked, fully expecting her to say no. She never wanted to talk about it. She usually told him that it was just an occupational hazard, and the next morning, everything would be as normal as ever, as if there was no dream and no tortured words in languages he didn't understand.

This time, though, there was a long stretch of silence, and then she spoke. "It was quite a few years ago," she began. "I was in St. Petersburg with Jen, a joint op on a man financing Chechnyan rebels. Jen does—did—not speak Russian, which made it my op, she was the control. I gained entry by dressing as a prostitute." She lapsed into silence again, and he gently rubbed circles in her back. "We got our intel and captured the target, but not before I was beaten in the course of the mission. I was not made; that was just how he treated his prostitutes." She was quiet again, and he wanted to kick himself for making her relive these memories. "While I was... questioning him, he said something about an arms dealer, and Jen forced me to stop so we could learn more."

"La Grenouille," he said flatly. She nodded.

"Yes. I did not know anything about him at that point, was confused about why a Russian financier was speaking about a frog, but Jen seemed to know what he was talking about. The information the target had on him was not good, and I told Jen that we should complete our primary mission and go home, but she would not listen." She paused. "She knew my injuries were bad, but I did not tell her how bad. Perhaps I should have."

"How bad?" he asked quietly.

"Sprained knee, several bruises and mild internal bleeding. The biggest was the broken shoulder." His eyes fell involuntarily to her right shoulder, where a faint roadmap of surgical scars could still be seen. He knew about the surgery in general terms, just that she had had it, but didn't know the specifics. "Yes," she said, knowing what he was thinking. "The injuries eventually required surgery after I returned to Tel Aviv, but this happened first." She glanced up at him and then back down at her hand, which was lazily drawing circles on his chest. "We continued our set-up in St. Petersburg. I had dressed as an old woman, put on a headscarf, dyed the front of my hair gray, wore makeup to make me look pale and old. Jen was in a repair van half a block away. We had the building our target claimed La Grenouille was staying in under surveillance."

At once, both her words and her hands stopped, and then she resumed talking. "I counted three bodyguards, informed Jen, but she told me I was mistaken, that he did not travel with bodyguards, but I did not believe her. My training was different than hers and I trusted my eyes more than I trusted her intel. With three bodyguards and one target and only one functioning arm, I knew I could not eliminate the target without getting killed myself. I called off the mission and walked away. Jen was furious at me and wanted me to go back, but I would not. I called for an extraction and went back to Tel Aviv. After my surgeries, I was reassigned, to begin as a control officer."

"For Ari."

"Yes," she confirmed. "Jen was made a deputy director shortly thereafter. She later sent me an email to apologize, I told her that apologies were not necessary and informed her of my new position. She wished me luck, and I did not hear from her again until I requested her assistance in DC four years ago." He didn't have to ask what that was about; he had been there. "In my dream... In the dream, La Grenouille was already dead, but he was not dead. And you... you were a bodyguard. You held your Sig to me and told me that it was my fault, that if I had listened to Jen and eliminated the target as I should have, that none of the rest would have happened. You would not have gone undercover, not have met Jeanne—"

"Hey," he interrupted, using his fingers to push her chin up to face him. "You made a judgment call and walked away, and I'm glad you did. If you hadn't, you would have been killed, and I never would have met you." He searched her eyes, waiting for the realization to set in. "Everything else... None of that matters. All that matters is that we're here, now, together. Understand?"

She slowly nodded, her body relaxing even further into his. He nodded in return and lightly kissed her lips. "Go back to sleep, Ziva. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."


	34. Chapter 34

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 34**

* * *

When he was young, teachers often said that Eli David did not sit still well. He was a bright child and finished his work before the other students, and then would get bored and become destructive; he was one of those gifted pupils that teachers simultaneously loved and hated to have. For years, they were at a loss about what to do with him, until one teacher, in a fit of easily-explained frustration, handed him a complex logic problem and told him that if he was he looking for something to do, he should solve that. For an hour, he didn't move from his chair as he considered the few facts provided as clues to the puzzle, until he had it solved. After that, the teacher always had a stack of similar logic problems waiting, although they took him less and less time to figure out as time went on. At the end of the school year, she passed along that hint to his next teacher. By the time he graduated from the gymnasium, he was well-known by the teachers in the Haifa school system for his intelligence and deductive reasoning skills, for his powers of observation and his desire to always seek out new challenges. More than one said that he was destined for a career in intelligence, perhaps even someday as a high-ranking Mossad officer. A few were surprised when he elected to take his studies to England, to the military academy at Sandhurst to begin what appeared to be a career in the Israeli Defense Force, but after thinking about it, they seemed to agree that it was a good fit for him; there were no end to the challenges that would face an officer of the army of one of the most contested nations on the planet.

As an adult, he still did not sit still well, and still had a tendency to go out of his way to look for new challenges, although now, he thought on larger scales than logic puzzles copied from books. Sitting in a hospital room, no matter how nice it may be, with only his doctors and nurses, an aide, and his daughter and her lover as company, was definitely trying his patience. "I am thinking," he said, barely glancing over his newspaper to gauge Ziva's reaction, "that perhaps it is time for me to return to Tel Aviv and get back to work."

She looked up from her own newspaper and frowned before turning to Agent DiNozzo. The NCIS agent didn't always accompany her during her morning visits with her father, a fact David could not fault him for. He could think of few things more dull than visiting an ailing man in a hospital room with little to talk about but the weather and the state of the Obama administration. When he did accompany Ziva, though, they typically spoke in English to avoid being disrespectful, although Ziva had no problem switching to Hebrew the few times she wanted to say something that didn't concern DiNozzo. The younger man didn't seem to mind.

This was one of those times. "I do not think that is a good idea," she said mildly in Hebrew. DiNozzo glanced up, then returned to whatever it was he was doing on his computer, not appearing all that concerned with his surroundings, although David suspected that it was all part of a cleverly-crafted façade to make him appear less observant and less competent than he obviously was.

David gestured around the room. "There is not much for me to do here," he replied in the same language. Ziva frowned and folded the newspaper, obviously preparing for a heated debate.

"You only recently suffered a seizure," she pointed out, "and this was very soon after a course of treatment. It is obvious that your condition is not stable. I do not think it would be safe for you to return to Tel Aviv, not when Dr. Nurick should be observing you."

"Dr. Rubenstein can watch over me just as well from Tel Aviv," he argued. "I am the director of Mossad, and I have not seen the inside of my office for some time now. People will begin to talk."

"Even directors are allowed to take vacations," she commented.

"Vacations have end dates," he replied, "and I have not provided anyone with one."

She frowned. "You are too ill to work," she said flatly. He raised his eyebrows.

"That does not seem to be a way to provide encouraging words to your father," he pointed out. Her eyes narrowed, and he knew that she was about to strike with something particularly piercing. Her expressions had changed little since childhood, and he could still tell, or at least suspect, what she was thinking just from watching her face.

"You may be my father, but you are also my director," she replied, her voice still even but emphatic, "and speaking to my director, I do not think that the best thing for my agency is for you to return to work at this point." DiNozzo glanced up from his computer; apparently, that tone of Ziva's was the same whether she was speaking Hebrew or English.

"You do not want me to return to Tel Aviv," David stated.

"No," she replied flatly, "I do not." The two were locked in a silent staring match, a battle of the wills that David was no longer sure he could win. Despite his earlier words to his daughter, he did not believe that her time in America had made her soft; it had instead provided her with new skills with which she could use to fight her battles. If he had thought for a second that he could convince her to return to Mossad full-time, he would do so without hesitation. He had always thought of her as 'the sharp end of the spear'; somehow, she had become sharper in her absence.

"You have my promise that I will not frame Hamas for my death," he finally said. Her eyebrows rose fractionally before her eyes narrowed, and he steeled himself for another attack of something that he knew would be particularly cruel.

"I learned at an early age that your promises do not carry much weight," she replied coldly. Even though he was prepared for such a comeback, the words still made him flinch. He wondered if she would believe how much he regretted his absences at her recitals or having not given her more lazy weekend days to help her with her homework or just spend the time getting to know her better. He doubted it, so he didn't try.

"Perhaps what I need, then, is just an escape from this hospital." The words were spoken in English, making DiNozzo glance up again. A brief expression of confusion crossed over his features before returning to their previous carefully-measured disinterest. "There is much I would like to show you about Vienna, Ziva, things I have not seen since I was young."

She looked suspicious, at the change in conversation and language as well as how easily he had let the previous subject drop. "Tony and I have already seen much that there is to see around Vienna," she finally replied, also in English. She glanced over to DiNozzo as if to confirm. The NCIS agent only shrugged a shoulder.

"There are some things that have particular significance to our family," he said gently. Again, her eyes narrowed, and he could see her trying to figure out what that could be. "My mother was born not far from here, as I am sure you know. What I am not sure you know is my grandparents died near here as well. It has been a long time since I have paid my respects."

"You have never put interest in cemeteries and graveyards," she pointed out.

"This one is different."

It took her a moment, but he saw the realization dawn in her eyes. "Mauthausen-Gusen," she finally said. He nodded. As far as he knew, she had never been to the former concentration camp; he had not been there since the museum was dedicated the year before she was born. He wondered if she even knew that her great-grandparents had died there. He didn't think he had ever said anything about it when she was growing up, seeing no reason to; he never knew the grandparents who were buried there. She had received enough history about the Holocaust in the schools that he never saw the need to add that particular personal detail. As he had told her often during her training and early years in the IDF and Mossad, making things personal would only complicate matters.

"They were not at the main camp in Mauthausen, where the museum now is," he continued. "They died near here, in one of the sub-camps around Vienna, but there is nothing there now. I would like to show you that piece of history." He saw DiNozzo blink once in surprise; the American had probably never known anyone with a personal history to a concentration camp.

"I had enough instruction on history in school," she said flatly. He shook his head.

"This is family." He could see the conflicting emotions in her eyes, and again steeled himself for a comeback, perhaps a biting remark about how he had never seemed all that concerned with family before, which was fair. That was another reason he wanted to take her to Mauthausen; it would be a good setting to answer many of the questions that she had stopped herself from asking throughout the course of her life, questions about why he was the way he was and why he made the decisions he had.

To his surprise, no comments came. Instead she just nodded simply. "Very well," she replied. "Tomorrow?"

He nodded. "I will make arrangements with Aaron," he informed her. As if on cue, there was a knock on the door. He called for the person to enter, revealing the blond aide. "Ah, Aaron. I need you to make arrangements for us to travel to the museum at Mauthausen tomorrow."

Aaron frowned. "Tomorrow is Saturday," he pointed out. David only raised his eyebrows, and the fair man blushed slightly. "Yes, of course," he replied quickly. "I will make arrangements. Would you like a personal tour?"

"No," he replied. "We do not need to be accompanied by anyone other than my security detail. Coordinate the visit with Officer Kurowski; I do not want the detail surprised at the last minute."

"Of course," Zirwas said with an eager nod. "That may require a visit before the camp is officially open."

"Whatever is necessary," he said with a dismissive wave. He didn't want to be concerned with the details of organizing the visit; that was one of the many reasons why he had an aide.

"I will get right to it, sir," Aaron said quickly before ducking out of the room, his phone already in hand to begin to make arrangements. David didn't envy him the calls he would have to make to prepare the museum to receive the director of Mossad on such short notice, but Aaron was an efficient organizer; he was sure everything would run smoothly the next day.

He returned his attention to his daughter and Agent DiNozzo. "Aaron will contact you later today to let you know when you need to be ready," he told them. He gave Ziva a meaningful look. "There is much I would like to teach you about our family," he said. She only wore a brief expression of puzzlement before she nodded. She crossed the room to kiss him on the cheek.

"Until tomorrow, Papa," she said as she straightened. She managed a smile before heading for the door, DiNozzo in tow. The NCIS agent gave him a quick nod before they left the room. _Until tomorrow_.

---

Aaron Zirwas waited until Officer David and Agent DiNozzo were out of earshot before he hit the 'call' button on his cell phone. "_Ja, hier _Enderlin," he said when the call connected. "Tomorrow morning, the Mauthausen memorial site. The entourage will likely arrive at 0630."

_"And what would you like me to do?"_ He barely swallowed his disgust at having to use such a person for this, but discretion was of the utmost necessity.

"I do not care, Öggl," he said flatly. "Just as long as the deed is done by the end of the day." He hung up the phone before the Austrian had a chance to add anything further.


	35. Chapter 35

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 35**

* * *

Ziva stifled a yawn as she stepped out of the helicopter after two of her father's bodyguards and in front of her father. Tony and another member of the security detail followed. She had already told him the evening before that she would be conversing privately with her father at the former concentration camp; he said that was fine with him, but he was still going along, even if it was only as a member of the security detail. She had frowned, mentally comparing his abilities to provide security with those of her father's detail, but eventually agreed. If she had been completely honest with herself, she would admit that she needed him there, to keep her grounded, even from several meters away and behind his polarized sunglasses.

From the helicopter, they piled into a secured Suburban—_yes, that is discreet in Europe_, she thought sarcastically—which took them the short drive to Mauthausen. There, they were met by a stout middle-aged woman with dyed crimson hair and a wide and obviously fake smile. "Welcome to the Mauthausen Memorial," she greeted in poorly accented Hebrew laced with an enthusiastic tone just as fake as her hair and smile. Ziva glanced over her shoulder to see the security detail—including Tony—properly arranged around her and her father. She frowned at that, almost irritated at the thought that she needed protecting, but figured that of all of the battles she had to fight, the arrangement of her father's security detail was not one she needed to deal with at the moment. She turned her attention back to the woman with the bad dye job just in time to catch the tail end of her introduction. "—Dr. Rachel Schloss, the director of the Memorial. We are very honored by your visit, Director David. If there is anything we can do to be of assistance to you while you are here, please do not hesitate to ask. I can lead you on a personalized tour of the grounds and the museum—"

"That will not be necessary, Dr. Schloss," David interrupted firmly in German, a signal to the woman that she should stop trying to speak Hebrew. He glanced over at Ziva before returning his attention to the museum director. "My grandparents died at a sub-camp near Vienna. All I would like is a chance to privately show my daughter what exactly that meant."

"Oh!" Dr. Schloss exclaimed, her face registering surprise. Her eyes drifted over to Ziva. "Is this your first visit to Austria?" she asked slowly and loudly, and still in Hebrew. Ziva frowned at that; did the woman think that she was having difficulty speaking Hebrew? Where did she think Ziva was from?

"To Austria, no," she replied in German, speaking as her father had done. Schloss didn't even have the good graces to look embarrassed at her faux pas. "But it is my first visit to Mauthausen."

"Do you know much about the Holocaust?" Well, at least she had finally switched to German, even though the question itself was incredibly stupid.

"I am from Israel, Dr. Schloss," Ziva replied. "I know much about the Holocaust."

"Of course," the museum director said, sounding somewhat unconvinced. Ziva barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. _Just because I do not have a doctorate in history does not mean that I do not know it_. She was very tempted to say those words aloud, but restrained herself. She was just glad that Tony couldn't follow any of the conversation; there would have been no end to the teasing.

They finally managed to shake off Dr. Schloss and began to walk the grounds of the former concentration camp, the security detail unobtrusively surrounding them. For several long minutes, they walked silently, both father and daughter glancing around at their environment without really seeing it. "Most of the work at this camp was in the quarry," Eli finally said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the stone quarry. "Perhaps you would like to see it?" Ziva shrugged noncommittally, and they began heading in that direction. "I do not know how much you remember of your grandmother, my mother," he began.

"Not much," she admitted. Eli David had been born late in his parents' lives—there were almost twenty years between him and his oldest sister, Nettie—and Eva David had died when Ziva was still young. Cancer, if she remembered correctly. She seemed to remember a constant stench of cigarette smoke surrounding the tiny, frail-looking woman with white hair and sharp dark eyes, and even sharper tongue.

"She was born just outside Vienna," David explained. His voice was matter-of-fact, as if he was explaining an intelligence briefing, not a family history. "She trained as a nurse in Vienna, but could not find work due to the restrictions put on Jews at the time. Instead of accepting the positions the government would allow her to have, none of which were as a nurse, she chose to move down to Haifa, where she met my father. They married, and she stayed in Israel—Palestine, at the time. Her parents, my grandparents, stayed in Vienna. Eventually, they were moved to a ghetto, and then to the camps. They were already well in their fifties, too old for manual labor. It is believed that they were executed immediately." Ziva didn't know what he expected her to say to that, so she didn't say anything. "Our family history has always been with its difficulties," he concluded.

"Yes," she said softly. She looked over at her father. At first glance, one would assume that he was nothing more than he appeared to be, a healthy man approaching seventy, the obvious security detail hinting at importance. It was only because she knew him that she was able to see more—the fatigue in his features, the gait that was slower than usual, the secrets he hid in his eyes.

She returned her gaze to the path in front of them before speaking again. "Our family difficulties," she began before glancing at him. "How many of those were intentional?"

For a long minute, neither spoke. "You are asking about your brother," David finally replied.

"Yes."

"And what exactly is it that you are asking?"

She had to think about that for a moment, trying to decide which of the thousand questions she had about Ari she should start with. She finally decided starting at the beginning would be the best. "His birth," she began. "Was that an intentional plan, or an occupational accident?"

Again, they walked in silence before Eli spoke. "Which answer makes me appear to be less of a monster?" he finally asked in a low voice. Ziva raised an eyebrow; his tone suggested that he was asking the question legitimately.

"The one that is true," she answered with a frown. He gave a slight chuckle and shook his head.

"There are many truths," he said, finally looking at her. "Many truths, and even more lies, some so covert that they appear to be truths. Truth is something that is decided many years after the fact." He gestured around them. "If Germany had won this war, would this memorial be here today? The truth, as the world would know it, would be that the Jews set out to destroy Europe, as the Nazis had claimed. History would have exalted them for 'answering the Jewish question'. This museum, if it even existed, would be a testament to the 'truth' of Aryan superiority, not to remember the horrors that once occurred on these grounds."

"Do not try to avoid the question with a philosophical debate," Ziva said sharply. "I am only interested in the truth determined by the facts."

He nodded, his eyes again on everything but his daughter. "I always taught you that all that mattered were the facts. It is a relief to know that you still think that way." He paused before speaking again. "The fact was, Ari's conception was an occupational accident. My assignment was to gain the trust of the Gaza medical community." He lapsed into silence before speaking again. "The 'truth', as far as Mossad was concerned _after _the fact, was that Ari would someday be a natural mole into Hamas. His education, whatever he would want that to be, was to be financed, earning his trust and loyalty."

"That is how you explained things to your superiors." It wasn't a question, and she knew her father understood that. They both knew how things worked in espionage; double-speak and changing events after they occurred were common practices.

"Yes," he confirmed. There was something in that one word that made her frown.

"That is not what you wished to have happened."

"No."

"You were in love with her."

"Yes."

She frowned. "Why did you not marry her?"

The chuckle that escaped his lips was anything but joyful. "I made a mistake. I fell in love while working undercover. When the truth—the _real_ truth—came forward, she was very hurt. She could not understand why I had done what I had done." She blinked in surprise, both at what he had revealed and at the similarities between another undercover mission years later on another continent. Two physicians, two men who would have done anything for their jobs... "Besides, she was a Palestinian doctor; I was an Israeli Mossad officer. She kept her hair covered; I could still recite the passage of the Torah from when I was a _bar mitzvah_. Culturally, there were differences that could not be overcome." She blinked again before looking away. As if realizing his mistake, Director David frowned. "I did not mean to imply anything about your relationship with Agent DiNozzo, Ziva. Not all cultural differences are insurmountable. You appear to have well with them thus far."

She chose not to comment on his words. There were more pressing things that had to be covered, before she lost the nerve to ask. "Why did you not tell us—me and Tali? About Ari?"

"And tell you what? That your father made a mistake? That you had a half-brother living in the Gaza Strip with a single mother while you had a full family, complete with aunts and uncles and grandparents, in Tel Aviv? You, I feel, would have always understood, but Tali... She would not have taken the news so well."

She swallowed, remembering how she had found out, when she was nineteen and home on leave from the IDF. The documents had been well-hidden, and it had taken her awhile to figure out what she was looking at. She had wanted to confront him with it, but found herself unable to think of the words to ask and it had never seemed like the right moment. The closest she had come had been three years later, two weeks after Tali's funeral. She had walked by her father's study to see him intensely studying a photograph, a look of sadness like she had never seen before on his face. She almost asked why there were regular transfers from her father's accounts to an account in Scotland and who Ari Haswari was and why the 'father' line on his birth certificate was completely blank, but changed her mind at the last moment and instead had quietly asked her father if he was okay. He had cleared his throat and said he was fine, but could not meet her gaze. "When you assigned me to be his control officer," she began, finally vocalizing the question she had had since that assignment started, "did you know that I knew?"

"Yes," he replied without hesitation. She had confronted him about it six months into the assignment, but they had all always acted as if she had just found out, as if Ari had revealed it to her in his angst against their father. She flinched visibly at his confirmation, wondering the implications of that—had he suspected where Ari's true loyalties had lain? Had he known how that assignment would end? Had he intentionally set her up to kill her own brother?

"You made it personal," she said, her voice thick with accusation. "You always told me, never allow it to be personal. Do not get involved. Stay separate from the job. And then you sent me to try to control _your son_, my _brother_. Could it get more personal?"

"I have not been the father I should have been," he said, his voice low with... regret? That was an emotion she had never heard from him before. "Not for you, not for Tali, and certainly not for Ari. But that does not mean that I did not love you. It does not mean that I never felt the pain when Tali died, then Ari, and then you turned away from me. I think of those three, it was that last one that hurt the most." They ascended three stone steps of what were labeled 'The Stairs of Death' in four different languages before he stopped and faced her. "You were always my child, Ziva. Tali was beautiful and sweet and the world is a lesser place without her in it, but you were truly mine. I had known from when you were very young that it would be you who would follow in my footsteps, who would understand the path of my life and know how to follow it. To see you now, to see who you have become... I just wanted you to know that I am truly proud of you, Ziva, for everything you have done." She felt the newly-familiar sting of tears in her eyes, and was further surprised when he gave her a sad smile and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. "I have always wanted to do right by you, my daughter," he murmured. "I am deeply sorrowful that I often failed at that."

She opened her mouth to tell him that she understood, or maybe that she forgave him, but before she got the chance, a single gunshot rang out and her father collapsed to the ground at her feet.


	36. Chapter 36

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 36**

_A/N: This was a really hard chapter to write, because I felt very, very dirty while writing it. It's not easy getting into the mind of a Neo-Nazi, and I didn't particularly enjoy doing so, but I felt that it would make more of an impact if it was written from this POV. So, my apologies if anyone is offended by anything written here. I must stress, it is FICTION._

* * *

Klaus Öggl studied the figures below in the scope of his rifle, trying to keep his eyes from narrowing in disgust. Dirty Jews, the whole lot of them. Well, except for the one Enderlin had identified as the American boyfriend, the Catholic, but as far as Öggl was concerned, if he was sleeping with one, that made him just as dirty as the rest of them.

To his eye, well-trained at identifying the less-pure living amongst his Aryan brethren, their Jewishness was obvious, from their dark hair and dark eyes and their noses and superior attitudes, but they were doing nothing to advertise their affiliations, to warn the less-prepared of their presence, trying to hide in the crowd as if they were no different than anyone else. There should be rules about that, to keep the ignorant-but-still-pure protected from unintentionally doing business with them—or worse, doing as that Anthony DiNozzo did, to lie with them and make their bed with them. There should have been some regulation to make sure they were identified. _Der Führer_ and the Third Reich had it right all those years ago when they made those dirty Jew pigs wear yellow stars on their clothes, making sure that the less-informed were given fair warning. Of this lot, only the girl displayed any sign of the contamination deep in her blood, in her soul, in the form of that six-pointed star she wore around her neck. He had to fight the temptation to aim his rifle at that small target that she had created for him, but Enderlin had made it clear—the priority was the man, the director of Mossad. He was allowed to take out anyone else he wanted after David was dead. _David_, he thought with disgust. The name of the first King of Israel, the Old Testament's King of the Jews. The very name stank of one belonging to a 'child of Abraham'. _And they are so pretentious as to think that they are God's chosen_, he thought bitterly. He'd show them just what God thought of them. They couldn't hide behind their whining and their lies about the Holocaust forever, he would make sure of that.

He tightened his attention on the two walking together, the ones not in the security formation - Director Eli David and his daughter, Ziva. They were making their way slowly toward where he was hidden in the rocks of the quarry, in no apparent hurry. They stopped often, their expressions serious, belying the intense tone of the conversation, although none of their words drifted to where Öggl sat. _As if I could understand their dirty Jew language, anyway_. Despite the fact that Enderlin had told him that they were there to see the so-called 'concentration camp', they seemed disinterested in their surroundings, only focused on the words between father and daughter.

They stopped on the third step of the long stone stairway marked with a sign that claimed it to have been a site where the pure-blooded soldiers of the Reich had mercilessly driven so many of their kind and other enemies to the Reich to their deaths in exhaustion so many years ago, and Öggl narrowed in on his target. He wished he could take both out with one bullet, to kill two proverbial birds with one proverbial stone, not wanting to waste his ammunition on such poor prey, but the way they stood, that just wasn't possible. He didn't have the time to find a better position for so symbolic a slaughter. So he focused in on Eli David, remembering his promise to Enderlin that he would eliminate the primary target before moving on. It was the death of the director of Mossad that would send shockwaves through the Jews of the world, to remind them of their weaknesses, to make sure they knew that they weren't safe. An unknown woman in her thirties... Well, that would be a 'tragedy', for sure, but people would forget. He had to remain focused on the goal. He saw the old man lean over and press his lips to his daughter's forehead, and although his scope didn't allow for such detail, he imagined her eyes filling with tears, as if she somehow knew that that would be the last time her father could do that. And then with one confident pull of the trigger, the director of Mossad was dead, the well-aimed bullet piercing his left temple and exiting the right before slamming into the stone step, sending sharp splinters and gray dust into the air.

And then things quickly fell apart.

The daughter immediately dropped to a defensive position and a handgun appeared, seemingly from nowhere, into her hands. Although he knew the range of the weapon she held and knew that he was safe, he still shrunk away slightly, watching through his scope as she pointed it directly at him and pulled the trigger. He couldn't stop himself from jumping back in surprise. Like he suspected, the shot went wide, but she had taken off running, sprinting up those stone steps toward him faster than anyone in a skirt and heels should be able to, almost before the bullet had left the gun. There was something to her that Enderlin had failed to mention, something dangerous. She was not just some pampered daughter here on a trip to learn about some family history; she wore advanced military training as obviously as she wore that Star of David charm. She knew exactly what she was doing, and his position had been compromised.

He tore himself away from the rifle's scope, just for a second, just trying to get a better handle on the situation around him, the figures now smaller but still easily distinguishable without the scope. One of the bodyguards was bent over Director David's body, his hand at his neck to confirm the kill—not a difficult task, considering the bullet hole through the man's temple and exit wound that took off the opposite side of his head. One other member of the security detail was following Ziva David up the stairs, while another had taken off in another direction, trying to cut the unseen sniper off from another direction. The remaining man, the American boyfriend, also had a handgun out, his body crouched in a ready posture as he simultaneously moved, scanned his environment, and barked orders to the others in clear, loud English that even Öggl could understand. Like the daughter, there was more to this man than Enderlin had made known. He was obviously well-trained with a weapon and knew what he was doing.

He returned his eye to his weapon's scope and quickly moved it to where he knew the daughter would be at the first opportunity that he would get a shot, and before he even had time to prepare, she was there, nearing the top of the stairs, her weapon unwavering in her rapid climb up the stairs, her eyes locked on him. Time seemed to slow down in that moment, and he saw something cold, something hard, in her dark eyes, something that was worse than any punishment in hell could ever be, and found himself incapable of going through the familiar motions to get another round in the chamber. He wasn't sure if he had actually heard her voice or if he was imagining things before he felt the lancing pain in his left chest, his heart instantly pierced by her bullet, but he could have sworn he heard a voice heavy with hatred say, _schmor in der H__ö__lle._

And in the time it took his brain to stop functioning due to the lack of oxygen on account of his heart no longer beating, he realized fully that he would, indeed, rot in hell.


	37. Chapter 37

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 37**

* * *

It was 0600 Zulu when phones around the world began ringing.

Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs was still at his desk at NCIS, despite the hour—0200 in Washington, DC. The MCRT had gotten a call the afternoon before about a possible embezzlement case through the Pentagon. That wasn't something that would usually require overnight work by the MCRT, but they had been on-call for the weekend and in a rare bout of charity, he offered to take it off the hands of the Pentagon team so they could enjoy their weekend.

Sometimes, he wondered if it was his lingering guilt about switching weekends with Special Agent Paula Cassidy a few years before that prompted such actions.

He was still squinting at his computer screen, no closer to figuring out what the lines of numbers meant than he had been a few hours before, when he detected the presence of someone standing by his desk. "What?" he barked, his eyes not moving toward the tall, thin blond agent he knew was standing there. He didn't bother to hide his annoyed sigh when she still didn't say anything. "Speak, Sopko," he ordered.

"Uh, sorry, sir—Gibbs," she replied quickly, prompting another sigh. At 0200, it was far too early—or late, depending on how one looked at it—to be dealing with the newest probie.

"What do you need?" he asked again when she still didn't say anything.

"The analysis of the account," she said, thrusting a small stack of papers onto his desk. "Uh, I don't think this is an embezzlement case at all—at least, not what we would usually think of as an embezzlement case. Nobody is taking money off the account for their own use, or even, I guess, for the use of a corporation or a third-party…" She trailed off at the look on Gibbs' face before picking up again, her eyes falling to the printouts now on Gibbs' desk. "I think everything about the account is fake. Both the deposits and the withdrawals since the account was opened in FY 2007 violate Benford's law." She glanced up and misinterpreted the blank look on the supervisory field agent's face to mean that he wanted her to explain further. "Uh, Benford's law is also called the first-digit law. When you have numerical data from a real-life source, there's a non-uniform—"

"Sopko," he interrupted. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Forensic accounting, sir—Gibbs. I specialized in fraud detection at Ernst and Young before I joined NCIS. I'm a CPA. I thought you knew that." Her normally pale face was now bright red in embarrassment. He was about to tell her that he didn't know anything about her personnel file—as always, Vance had put her on the team without any input from him when he didn't bother doing the busywork the director requested—but the ringing of his phone interrupted him before he could even begin. He frowned at the offending piece of plastic before grabbing for the receiver.

"Gibbs," he barked into the line, wondering who the hell would be trying to reach him at work after 0200.

"_Turn on ZNN. You're going to want to see this_." Director Vance hung up the phone before explaining further. He frowned again, this time at the dial tone, before he began barking out orders.

"McGee. ZNN. On the plasma," he said. The temporarily senior field agent also frowned, but scrambled for the remote sitting on his desk until the news network was displayed, and as one, all three of the junior agents' jaws dropped. Gibbs found himself wishing the coffee place stayed open later than 2200.

The image on the screen was of several official-looking people, most armed, on the opposite side of crime-scene tape as the camera, but what had gotten their attention was the banner along the bottom of the image: _Mossad Director Eli David Assassinated At Mauthausen-Gusen Concentration Camp Memorial_. Gradually, the words being spoken by the unseen journalist began to register. "—morning, while on a visit with his daughter to the Mauthausen-Gusen Memorial outside Mauthausen, Austria. Sources say that Director David's grandparents were killed at a sub-camp outside Vienna during the Holocaust and that this was his daughter's first visit to the Memorial. The shooter is confirmed to be Austrian citizen Klaus Öggl, who was fatally shot by a Mossad officer in the late director's security detail. For security purposes, no names or images of the detail will be released. It is rumored that Öggl may be connected to a Neo-Nazi organization in Vienna. Investigators are still working to confirm that Director David was the intended target of this attack. All other members of party, including the late director's daughter, have been confirmed to be unharmed. For those of you just tuning in, this is Rebecca Gargas of ZNN, live at the Mauthausen-Gusen Memorial, where Mossad Director Eli David was fatally shot earlier this morning."

Gibbs was pretty sure she wasn't lying when she claimed it was a live broadcast. He had seen a familiar figure on the screen, similarly dressed but lighter-haired than the other men, pull out a cell phone as he paced behind the bench where another familiar figure was sitting, unmoving. This time, he knew even before his own cell phone rang who was calling him after 0200. "We see it, DiNozzo," he said without a greeting. "How's Ziva?"

He was met with a brief period of silence and watched as the DiNozzo on the screen faced the camera. _If he waves, I'm smacking him right back to Agent Afloat, and this time, he's staying_. The on-screen DiNozzo didn't wave. He just turned and walked away from the cameras, presumably to move out of Ziva's earshot. _"Don't know what the reporters are saying, Boss, but the shooter's Klaus Öggl. Definitely Neo-Nazi. Guy had a swastika tattoo on his left chest, now decorated with a double-tap to the heart, courtesy of none other than Director David's own daughter. Yeah, Ziva's fine."_ His voice was heavy with the angry sarcasm he used to cover up any number of other emotions.

"Reporter said it was a member of the security detail."

This time, a sarcastic laugh. _"Yeah, they would say that," _DiNozzo replied in a mocking tone. _"Pretty embarrassing for Mossad, that their hand-picked security detail for the director can't get to the bad guy before a woman on vacation wearing a skirt and heels. She'll probably be getting some sort of Mossad super-ninja medal for that."_ There was a pause, and when the vacationing agent spoke again, most of the sarcasm was gone. _"She's pretty pissed, Boss. Don't know if that's because someone just killed her father or because she had to take matters into her own hands. Either way, she's not talking to me. Not talking to anyone. The Memorial's director somehow found a rabbi willing to come out here on a Saturday. Tried talking to her. Not a pretty picture. Feel kinda sorry for the guy."_ Gibbs watched on the plasma as the on-screen DiNozzo turned to face the camera again, as if speaking directly to the agents half a world away. _"There's something not right about this, Boss. The trip out to the concentration camp was last minute. Nobody was supposed to know. How did Öggl find out? How does a completely unknown Neo-Nazi sneak into a closed memorial packing heat?"_

"You're asking the right questions, DiNozzo."

_"Yeah. Unfortunately, the Austrian version of the FBI isn't. They're ready to close the case and ship Director David's body back to Israel. You gotta come out here, take over the investigation. That was the one thing Ziva's said in a language I understand: 'Get Gibbs and McGee. There is more to this than meets the gaze.'"_ Gibbs imagined DiNozzo giving a sarcastic smile. _"I tried to correct her English, but she wasn't really in the mood for that."_

"We can't just go into a foreign country and take over their investigation."

His words were met with silence. _"Talk to Vance. He was friends with Director David. Or look at it as a private request from the only surviving family member. We've done that before."_

"When we had a legitimate claim. We don't this time."

_"You gotta find a way, Boss."_ He heard the well-concealed plea in DiNozzo's voice and knew this wasn't about finding who killed Director Eli David; it was about doing right by Ziva. It was a feeling Gibbs could understand.

"Oh, we'll find a way," Gibbs replied. He didn't care what it took. "You tell Ziva we'll be there just as fast as the Navy can get us there." He hung up the phone before his senior field agent could respond. "Go home, McGee. You have an hour to pack your bags. Don't forget your passport."

"Boss?"

"Ever been to Austria?" He didn't wait for a response before turning his attention to his two temporary agents. "Sopko," he began, before he started flipping through the pile of mail that had been left on his desk earlier that day. "Consider yourself a part of the Pentagon team until we get back. Work with them on the embezzlement case."

"Well, it's not really a—"

"Don't care." He tossed most of the mail into the garbage. "Tomblin, you'll be with Special Agent Arnold." He gestured to the other side of the divider. "Both of you, go home, get some sleep, enjoy your weekend, report on Monday."

"We're not going with you?"

"Nope." He glanced down at the remaining piece of mail on his desk, a postcard of a pink hospital looking over a bright blue-green ocean, and tossed it in his desk drawer without reading it. He already had his phone out to find the fastest transportation to Austria as he rose from his desk. One last glance at the plasma screen before he left the squad room revealed the out-of-focus image of his senior field crouching down in front of a bench where his Mossad liaison sat. He couldn't see any details, but he imagined a look of relief on Ziva's face as Tony brushed a lock of hair away from her face while he spoke to her and told her to sit tight, that their team was coming, and soon, they'll be going home.


	38. Chapter 38

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 38**

_A/N: A few of you asked about the timeline for Eli David's assassination and Tony's call to Gibbs (ie, why ZNN arrived before DiNozzo called), and the reason is that Tony was busy securing the scene until the Austrian federal agents could arrive, and then had to give his statement, listen to Ziva give her statement, etc. By the time he was done with that, the cameras were rolling. He called Gibbs as soon as he was able to._

* * *

Getting to Austria was easier said than done, as the United States had removed their military presence from the alpine nation not long after the conclusion of the Second World War. McGee didn't know Gibbs had managed to swing it, but there was an Air Force brigadier general on his way to Germany to visit airmen being treated at Ramstein Air Base, and at 0400, he found himself following Gibbs onto the general's C-20B, the Air Force version of the Gulfstream. The one-star general turned out to be a pretty nice guy, having no problems with the two NCIS agents joining his entourage. Unfortunately for McGee's plans to spend the first leg of the trip sleeping, the man was also a Thom E. Gemcity fan, so instead of curling up in one of the plush leather seats, he was sitting next to the general discussing something Agent Tommy said in _Rock Hollow_ and explaining why it had been so long between the publishing dates for _Deep Six _and _Rock Hollow _and how long it would be before the next installment would be out on the shelves. Considering his increased duties as Gibbs' senior field agent and the fact that he hadn't written a single page of the novel that was just beginning to form in his head, it might be awhile. He still had to find out if Ziva would kill him or merely send him to intensive care if he added some sex scenes between Officer Lisa and Agent Tommy.

Fortunately, the general did have some work to do, leaving McGee to take his nap before they arrived at the Air Force base. From there, it was into a helicopter to take them to Mauthausen, where a bored-looking customs agent stamped their passports without a second glance and waved them to a waiting Chevy Suburban. McGee frowned; not quite the vehicle he would have expected to see in Austria.

The area where Ziva's father—Director Eli David—had been killed that morning still looked the same as it had on ZNN, with the exception of the change of direction of the shadows from the late afternoon sun. McGee glanced around, trying to get a feel for the area and wishing that he understood the German words that were flying between the men and women wearing windbreakers marked '.BK'. He figured they were the Austrian equivalent of the FBI and wondered who exactly was running this investigation.

Apparently, Gibbs was wondering the same thing. "Who's in charge here?" the supervisory agent asked loudly, holding up his credentials. Immediately, all German stopped as they turned to stare at him.

"That would be me," one man finally replied in a thick German accent, stepping forward. McGee blinked in surprise; the tall, lean, gray-haired man was the European version of Gibbs, down to the cup of coffee in his hand. "Harmon Diederich, _Bundeskriminalamt_. You are?"

"Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Naval Criminal Investigative Service."

"Ah, NCIS. The same as Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo?"

"And Officer Ziva David," Gibbs added. He glanced around, a frown appearing on his face. "Where are my people?"

"Mossad security took Officer David and Special Agent DiNozzo to an undisclosed location near _Wien _several hours ago," Diederich replied. "Much to Special Agent DiNozzo's protests." A snort escaped McGee's lips; that certainly sounded like Tony. Both senior agents turned and stared, and he felt his face flush.

"Don't you have something to do, McGee?" Gibbs snapped.

"Uh, actually, Boss…" He trailed off at the look on Gibbs' face. "I'll go take some pictures," he said quickly. He placed the camera bag on the ground and began assembling the Nikon, keeping one ear on the conversation between the two other men. At the moment, they were locked in a silent staring match. McGee considered pulling out his phone to take a video of 'Gibbs vs Austrian Gibbs' to send to Abby, but decided it would be a waste; the outcome was pretty much already set. Austrian Gibbs may be scary in his own right, but there could only be one Gibbs.

"I do not understand what your stake is in this, Agent Gibbs," Diederich was saying. "This was a crime on Austrian soil, against a director of a foreign intelligence agency. There is no indication that your Agent DiNozzo was a target. We have already committed to working with Interpol on the investigation, and as you would say it, too many cooks in the kitchen ruin the pie."

"Soup," McGee corrected without thinking. Again, both men turned their glares to him. "I'll, uh, get to those pictures now, Boss," he said quickly. He snapped a few half-hearted shots at pretty much nothing to make his point, but remained close enough to continue to eavesdrop.

"Those are my people," Gibbs said, returning his attention to the Austrian agent.

"There is no indication that either was a target," Diederich repeated.

"They called _me_."

"And if you would like Mossad to take you to where they currently are, I am sure that can be arranged. However, this investigation is off the limit to you and your people." McGee had to bite his tongue to resist the temptation to correct him. Maybe the English language _was _as difficult to fully grasp as Ziva made it seem.

Gibbs gave a slight smile, telling McGee that, as always, he knew something that nobody else did. Sure enough, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. "This says it isn't." He handed it over without saying anything further.

"A request from Mossad to have you join the investigation," Diederich finally said. "I do not understand why a deputy director of Mossad would request the assistance of a relatively unknown foreign agency."

"Could be because the daughter of their late director specifically requested it," Gibbs replied. "Or it could be because said director was a close friend of my director. Or, because we're that good." He smirked slightly. "Now, where are we on the investigation?"

Austrian Gibbs glared for another minute before he finally spoke. "The shooter was Klaus Öggl," he began. "His background is still unknown to us, but his body art suggests affiliation—"

"Neo-Nazi," Gibbs interrupted. "Who's he with?"

"We are still looking into that."

"How'd he get into a closed Holocaust memorial?"

Now Diederich was beginning to look uncomfortable. "We are still looking into that," he reluctantly repeated.

"McGee," Gibbs barked, not glancing up from his notebook. "Work with the Bundes-people—"

"_Bundeskriminalamt_," Diederich corrected. McGee wondered if the Austrian knew that that particular look meant that Gibbs didn't care.

"Work with them on Oogle's—"

"Öggl," Diederich interrupted again, emphasizing the first syllable. This time, Gibbs gave him a brief glare. McGee wondered if any Austrian federal agents should make an appearance in his next book. Maybe Special Agent Tibbs could finally snap and take out a 'cooperating' agent. Then it would be up to Special Agent McGregor and the rest of the team to clear his name… No, that didn't work. If he wanted to make it realistic, he'd have to have someone frame Special Agent Tommy for the murder. That, he could work with. They'd have to come up with a list of suspects, people who would want to get back at Agent Tommy for something. Officer Lisa could run the names of women in Agent Tommy's past. She would get frustrated with the seemingly-endless parade of one-night stands and casual relationships and would confront him about it in a seemingly innocuous place, such as in front of the copy machine. He would realize the depth of her feelings for him… He shook his head; too obvious, too 'shove the relationship in the readers' faces'. Things would have to be more subtle—

"McGee!" He blinked at the harsh tone of Gibbs' voice and looked up sheepishly. "Why are you still here?"

"On it, Boss," he replied automatically, before realizing he didn't know what exactly he was on. The look on Gibbs' face told him it wasn't the best time to ask. He hoped he hadn't missed anything after Gibbs' request to have him look into Öggl's past, because that's where he was going. "Uh, Boss?"

Gibbs glanced up, an unreadable expression on his face. "We'll meet up with Ziva and DiNozzo when we're done here. And McGee? She's fine."

"Of course she's fine," McGee replied, giving a smile he didn't feel at all. "She's Ziva." To be honest, it was Tony he was worried about. Being confined in a safe house with a trained assassin after someone had taken out her father literally right in front of her eyes? Sure, the senior field agent was tough and could roll with the punches, but he couldn't help but wonder if anyone was _that_ tough.


	39. Chapter 39

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 39**

* * *

No words were spoken during the helicopter ride from Mauthausen back to Vienna. With the security detail sequestered for questioning by the .BK, a replacement team was sent from Tel Aviv, this time charged with protecting Ziva - and to a lesser extent, Tony - from whoever was after her father until the investigators could determine the motivations of the 'bad guys', as Tony put it. After they arrived, Tony argued with them for at least half an hour about how much more good the two crime scene investigators could do by remaining at the scene, but in the end, the big men with guns and Mossad training always win, and into the helicopter they went. During the entire exchange, Ziva didn't contribute anything to the argument, and when Tony had realized that all was lost, she followed him onto the chopper without complaint. As soon as they were buckled in, she reached for his hand and didn't let go until after they landed.

She felt oddly composed ever since she shot her father's assassin—Klaus Öggl, they had told her. For the first time in three weeks, she didn't feel like she was on the verge of tears, and she felt almost guilty about that, but for her, the nightmare was over. There was no more waiting for the end, no more wondering what thoughts were going through his head and whether his disease put them there, no more waiting for the other shoe to fall. She could finally go back to DC, go back to her old life of investigating crime scenes and tracking down sailors and Marines who weren't as smart as they thought they were, of joking with her partner and taking turns making jabs at McGee.

God, she wanted that life back.

"We're here," the pilot said needlessly. She didn't even have to bite back a retort about being able to figure that out when the helicopter had landed on the ground and powered down, because she still had no desire to speak. Instead, she merely nodded and unbuckled, waiting for the Mossad security to indicate that it was clear before stepping out into the late-morning sun.

Dr. Shmuel Rubenstein was waiting for them a safe distance from the helicopter landing site. "_Hamakom y'nachem etkhem b'tokh sha'ar avelei tziyon viyrushalayim,_" he murmured softly as she approached, taking her hands in his as he kissed both of her cheeks.

"_Toda_," she replied, the first word she had spoken since explaining to the Austrian investigators what had happened. She had cursed Öggl, called out for backup, yelled at Tony, yelled at a rabbi, calmly recited the events of the morning, and now, thanked her friend. That was the total of the words spoken since her father's death.

"Your father's body will be brought here tomorrow," he said, switching to English with a nodded greeting to Tony. "I contacted the state pathologist of _Oberösterreich_ and informed him that he was not to do the autopsy, not on the Sabbath and not without a rabbi present. He agreed and made arrangements for transport."

"That was not necessary," Ziva replied with a frown. "My father is not observant."

"I know," Shmuel replied with a nod. "But it _was_ necessary. I didn't want some over-eager pathologist trying to be thorough and discovering more than he should. The pathologist at this hospital, one who already knew of Director David's diagnosis, will be performing the autopsy tomorrow. I'll be assisting. It will be a compete forensic examination, but no more attention will be given to the brain or nerves than would ordinarily be called for in a shooting."

"His diagnosis will not be recorded," Ziva stated, beginning to understand the reasoning.

"No, it will not," Rubenstein confirmed. "I will not lie on the autopsy report, nor will I allow Dr. Herz to do so, but we had a saying in medical school: 'Don't look for anything you don't want to find.'" He smiled thinly before switching topics. "You should be in _aninut_."

She shook her head. "I am no more observant than my father."

"Traditions and rituals have their place."

"Traditions and rituals without belief are meaningless," she countered. "I will mourn in my own way, without tearing my clothes and going a week without showering." Shmuel's eyes went from her to Tony. "Hey!" she snapped, reaching over and jerking his chin back to face her. "You _do not_ look to Tony to counter me. I am _fine_. I will make my own decisions, and my decision is that I will not be an _onen_ and will not sit _shiva_ and I will mourn as I see fit after I find who did this to my father. I do not care if you—_either_of you—agrees with that or not. Do you understand?" Her voice was sharp, her eyes narrowed dangerously. Shmuel looked scared; even Tony looked a bit taken aback. Maybe she was overplaying it just a bit. Of course, having the people she surrounded herself with a bit scared of her often worked to her advantage. "I will need access to a computer with security protocols, so I can see what Interpol—"

"No," Tony interrupted forcefully. Maybe he wasn't as scared of her as she thought. Then again, he really never had been. "We're going back to the safe house, and I don't care if I have to break your legs to get you there."

"Ha! I would like to see you try!" They stood practically toe-to-toe, both with their arms crossed over their chests, eyes glaring.

"Shmuel," Tony asked, his eyes still on Ziva. "Do you carry a weapon?"

"What? No!" the physician denied quickly.

"Good." And then with a move she honestly didn't see coming, he kicked her legs out from under her and caught her, all but throwing her over his back.

"Hey!" She tried to kick him, but he held her legs. "Let me go!"

"I've been sparring with you for four years. You didn't honestly expect that I wouldn't pick up a few tricks in that time, did you?"

"Well, your sparring certainly had not improved!"

He laughed. "Can't give away all my secrets. Now that I've proven I can do it, can I trust you enough to put you down?"

"I do not know. I just might shoot you."

"Austrian feebies took your Sig."

"Stab you, then." She hadn't been wearing a throw-away; they were hard to conceal when wearing a skirt.

"Okay," he replied. She felt him trying to shrug his shoulders. "Guess I'll have to carry you back." He took a few steps forward to demonstrate, which was difficult with her struggling on his back like that.

"Ziva, he is only trying to help," Shmuel said softly. She sighed and stopped struggling.

"You can let me down," she reluctantly said. "I will go back to the safe house voluntarily."

"Good," Tony said, releasing her. "It's not that you're heavy, but you're a bit awkward to carry when you're struggling around like that." He did keep his hands on her waist, which she thought was just to keep her from running off, until he leaned down and rested his forehead against hers, speaking softly enough that only she could hear. "Your father died today, Ziva. He was murdered less than a foot from where you stood. You're allowed to be a little freaked out."

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before nodding as best she could with his forehead in the way. "I know," she murmured. She opened her eyes and pulled away enough to meet his gaze. "Thank you." She kissed him softly, slowly, and it soon turned needy, but not the usual 'get your clothes off now' type of needy that she was accustomed to. Rather, it was a 'I need you here to support me and be with me' type of needy. The last time she could remember feeling anything even remotely resembling that was when she was five, when she broke her arm playing with some of the children in the neighborhood. She remembered crying for her father—she always cried for her father, never her mother. She felt moisture on her cheeks and realized she was crying. She buried her head in Tony's shoulder, feeling his arms wrap around her as she began sobbing.

"My offer to carry you back still stands," he said softly into her ear, his voice light, an unknown length of time later. She felt herself start to smile as she shook her head.

"No," she managed when she pulled away. "I can make it back." He nodded and draped his arm over her shoulder. She interweaved her fingers with his as they began walking the kilometer back to the safe house, the new security detail following at a discreet distance.

After unlocking the door to the safe house, Tony directed her to the couch, despite her protests. "I should—"

"Sit," he interrupted forcefully. "You should sit. I'll check the house." He pulled his Sig to add emphasis to the words as he headed for the stairs to make sure that there weren't any surprises waiting for them.

She didn't even know how long she had been sitting on that couch, absently turning the gold Rolex around on her wrist, but it seemed like a really long time. She knew Tony had his phone with him, so she figured he must be busy unplugging the computer and power adapter and everything else in order to bring it downstairs; there was no other explanation for what was taking him so long to clear two bedrooms and two bathrooms. Unless there really was someone waiting up there for him, but then she would have expected to have heard _something_ to indicated that Tony had at least put up a fight.

He finally reappeared, his Sig again holstered, his computer under his arm, and a strangely nervous expression on his face. "You were gone a long time," Ziva commented. "I was worried that somebody really was waiting for you and took you down without a fight."

"Out," he corrected with a grin as he joined her on the couch. "Took me _out_."

"Yes, that," she agreed.

"Sorry to disappoint. I'm still here." He gave her one of those wide 'aren't I charming?' grins, and she couldn't help the slight chuckle that escaped from her lips.

"That is too bad," she said lightly, giving him a smile so he would know she was joking. He smiled in return before his gaze turned serious, and he suddenly was no longer able to meet her eyes.

"I want to still be here for you," he said. "Here, or there, or wherever you need me to be, as long as I can be there for you, forever. I love you, Ziva, and I know it took me a long time to say it, but it didn't take me a long time to feel it, and being here—and there—with you the last few weeks, I've discovered a lot of things, about myself, about you, about us." He pulled a small box out of the side pocket of his pants and stared it at for a long minute, turning it in his fingers. Ziva knew her eyes were wide with disbelief at what was happening, her heart beating faster. Finally, Tony looked up and met her gaze. "What I'm trying to say, Ziva, is… Will you marry me?" She saw the box open in her peripheral vision and glanced down at it, staring for a long minute, transfixed.

It really was a beautiful ring—the solitaire was round and about one carat, the band gold and lined with tiny accent diamonds, impressive without being ostentatious. She knew without him saying anything that it had been custom designed by an eighty-five-year-old Holocaust survivor with her specifically in mind. She had had no idea until that moment that he had actually _bought_ it, though. "Tony…" she murmured, her voice trailing off as she lightly touched the piece of jewelry, as if confirming that it was, in fact, real. She looked up to see him watching her with an intense gaze, and her fingers moved from the ring to his cheek. She lightly traced his jaw before leaning in and kissing him, warm and deep. When they separated, she only had one word for him: "No."


	40. Chapter 40

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 40**

* * *

More than three months ago, Tony DiNozzo introduced himself to an old but feisty jeweler as Tony Dinallo and proceeded to spend the next six hours in the back room at Steiner's Jewelers, telling stories about women while being educated on diamond grading and studying sketches of rings. When he saw the final design on the computer, he saw why Saul Steiner had gotten a reputation as the best designer of custom jewelry in Georgetown: he knew his customers. That ring was Ziva, from the six-prongs around the round diamond, giving it a look similar to a Star of David; to the low setting that wouldn't get the in way of firing a gun, or wearing latex gloves at a crime scene, or pretty much anything else required in the day life of a Mossad liaison to NCIS; to the almost hammered appearance of the yellow gold band, matching the one piece of jewelry that Ziva wore every day. He had been so impressed that he couldn't speak for two minutes—practically a record for him—and had been so freaked out about the mental image he couldn't shake, the one of the ring actually _on_ Ziva's finger, that he had to go for a drive for an hour to clear his head. And then he had to go confront Ziva about the state of their relationship. It had been an all-around overwhelming day for him.

After the Grossman case was closed, he returned to the jewelry store, hoping to find a way to apologize for the necessity of his deceit without revealing Steiner's unintentional part in the rabbi's wife's crime spree. He ended up back in that same back room, drinking very expensive liquor while the jeweler confided that this was the most exciting thing to happen to him in a long time, and walked out with an engagement ring he couldn't afford. He had no intention of asking any sort of question involving a ring any time in the foreseeable future—as he had told Steiner, _preparing for the inevitable_—and really had no idea what possessed him to toss the small box in his sea bag when he packed to go to Israel. It wasn't until they were standing by the hospital's helipad with a sobbing Ziva in his arms that he realized why he had done it. It had taken him thirty seconds to pull it out of its hiding place—the toe of a spare pair of shoes—and another ten minutes sitting on the bed staring at it, trying to figure out what the hell he was doing and where proposing on the day her father had died was on the 'inappropriate' scale.

And then she said no.

"No?" he echoed weakly.

Ziva's eyes went from his to the open box still in his hands as she closed it. "Maybe not no," she amended. "Just… not yet."

"I don't understand."

She sighed. "You are only asking because I just lost my father—my family—and you feel the need to give me a new family, but you have not thought this through. You said it yourself, Tony; marriage is something we would both need years of intensive therapy before we can even consider."

"I love you," he said quietly.

"I know," she replied, "and I love you, but marriage? That takes more than love. Just look at Gibbs; he has been married four times. I am sure he loved each of his four wives and did not marry any of them with the intention of losing them." She looked at him. He knew that look in her eyes, the one that was searching his for something he didn't realize he was hiding. "We have not been together long. We have not truly worked together since we have started dating. We do not know what happens when we return to DC, to work." She placed her hand on his cheek. "I will not let you commit to something out of a sense of duty to protect me. If I said yes, if we returned to DC and told everyone that we are engaged, and then one or both of us realizes that it is not what we want, that our relationship is not what we thought it was, that we are not who we thought we were, what then?"

"I know what I want," he protested. "To be with you, argue with you, work with you, share my life with you. Nothing will change that."

"You do not know that."

He gave a frustrated sigh. "I'm not going to change your mind, am I?"

She shook her head. "No." She gently pushed the box fully into his hands. "Keep this. Give it to me when we are ready."

"When will that be?"

"I do not know," she admitted. He sighed; this was not how he thought this would happen. Of course, before forty-five minutes ago, he didn't think it would happen at all. "When we are ready, we will know."

"You sure about that?"

"No," she replied. She gave him an almost sad smile. "But that is the best I can offer right now." She spent a long moment studying him again before leaning in slightly and kissing him. "I have many phone calls to make and should do that before Gibbs and McGee arrive."

He nodded his agreement. "You go upstairs and do that. I'll stay down here check with the Austrian Feds and Interpol and see if they have anything." He gestured to his computer. "Come down if you need anything, okay?"

She nodded. "I will." She gave him a tight smile before rising from the couch and heading for the stairs. He waited until she was out of sight before sighing again and collapsing back into the couch.

That did _not_ go as he thought it would.

---

Europeans didn't do things the same way as Americans.

For the most part, Gibbs didn't spend much time thinking about his operations in Europe, especially since Jen's death, but being surrounded by Austrian Boonies or whatever they were called was bring back the not-so-pleasant memories of those times; mainly, how their French 'colleagues' had very strict rules about quitting time and couldn't seem to understand why their American counterparts didn't feel the same way.

Apparently, those rules were just as strictly enforced in Austria as they had been in France.

"It is 1800, Agent Gibbs," Harmon Diederich said matter-of-factly as he approached the NCIS special agent. Gibbs frowned and glanced at his watch.

"I have 1757." The Austrian grunted as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. That was another thing Gibbs didn't like about European ops: everyone smoked.

"It is past time to stop for the day," he commented as he lit the cigarette. Gibbs ignored him, returning his attention to the computer screen. After a brief walk-through of the already-processed scene at the Mauthausen Memorial, they all relocated to the Boonies' office, where Gibbs had spent most of the time trying to figure out how to use a Mac.

"Oogle have a cell phone?" he asked instead.

"Öggl," Diederich corrected, blowing a line of smoke from the corner of his mouth. "Of course."

"The number?"

"Agent Gibbs. It is late on a Saturday. It is time for my men to go home. We can worry about the mobile phone tomorrow."

Again, Gibbs ignored him. "It's earlier back home. My people have a few more hours of work in them. The number."

Diederich gave a long-suffering sigh as he pulled a notebook from his pocket. "It is a _Wien_ number, 0222 743916." He flipped the notebook closed again with another sigh.

"The bullets?" Gibbs asked, his phone already out. He hit the speed dial for Abby as he waited for Diederich's answer.

"Director David's autopsy has not been performed. The bullets from Öggl is consistent with Officer David's Sig Sauer."

"Gonna need that weapon back. Give it to McGee. Abs."

_"Gibbs! How's Austria?"_

"So far, not very exciting. Need you to run a cell phone."

_"What's the number?"_

He recited it, then added, "It's a veen number." He had no idea what that meant, but Diederich had made a point to say it.

Abby chuckled from the other side of the Atlantic. _"I think you mean '_Wien_', Gibbs."_

"Isn't that what I said?"

_"It's the German name for Vienna. The city. Do I have access to run this number?"_

He couldn't help but grin at that. "When has that stopped you?"

_"Gibbs! I'm insulted that you would think that I would be involved in nefarious activities!"_

"I'm sure you are," he said with a slight chuckle. "It's an Interpol case, authorization is O-09-35472284."

_"Thanks, Gibbs. I'll be the first to know if I get anything. Well, the second, technically—"_

"We've been over that already, Abs. Call me when you get something."

_"Say hi to Tony and Ziva and McGee for me!"_ He snapped the phone closed and returned his attention to Diederich.

"Officer David's Sig?" he prompted when he noticed that the Austrian agent hadn't moved.

"It is part of an open investigation."

"Not very open," he pointed out. "You know who did it. Self-defense."

"That has yet to be confirmed." He seemed to change his tune with Gibbs' stare, but didn't relent. "I cannot just return evidence."

"It's property of the US government." Diederich thought about that for a minute, then barked something into his phone in German.

"You will get your officer's Sig," he said, his voice cold. "Now it is time to call it a night."

"I still don't know where my agents are."

"That is between you and Mossad."

"Actually, it's between me and my agents." He hit another number on his speed dial. "DiNozzo. Where are you?"

_"Mossad safe house near __von Feuchtersleben _Krankenhaus._ You need us to send the prison guards to get you in the chopper? We can come with them to pick you up. It'll be nice to get out of the house. We're under Mossad lock and key, and I'm telling you, Boss, Mossad's lock and key is different than everyone else's lock and key. Not even Ziva can get us out of here."_

"I'll get back to you." He snapped the phone closed. "They're at von-something crankhouse."

"_Krankenhaus_," Diederich corrected impatiently. "It is German for 'hospital'. If I have the _Bundeskriminalamt_ helicopter take you there, will you go?"

"Sure," Gibbs replied, feigning disbelief. "You saying you're done with us for the night?" McGee couldn't manage to contain a snort of laughter at the confused expression on the Austrian's face. After a few seconds, Diederich's eyes narrowed and he muttered something in German before gesturing vaguely.

"Your helicopter will be there in about five minutes," he said coldly before walking away. McGee waited until he was out of earshot to start laughing.

"You know, Boss, that was kinda—." He cut himself off at the look on his boss' face. "Not fun. At all. I think I'm going to go outside and wait for the helicopter." Gibbs waited until McGee had ducked around the corner before allowing himself a slight smile. McGee was right; it was a bit fun. He wondered if it would still be fun when he had to question Ziva about her father's death.


	41. Chapter 41

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 41**

* * *

An unspeaking Mossad officer met Gibbs and McGee at the hospital's helipad, his expression unchanging as he studied their credentials. He did let them into the armored Suburban, though, so McGee figured they must have passed the Mossad litmus test. At least, the first Mossad litmus test.

He drove them to the safe house, still without speaking, stopping the car outside a row of non-descript brick townhouses. The only indication that they had that this was their intended stop was the fact that he unlocked the doors. "Uh, Boss…" McGee began, staring at the row of houses. He had no idea which one was theirs.

"This one," Gibbs said, heading toward a door that looked just like the others. McGee had no idea how he would know that, but he had learned over the last several years never to question Gibbs' gut. The fact that another stern, unspeaking Mossad officer appearing out of nowhere when Gibbs knocked on the door was another good indication that he was right.

"Stand down, Captain," DiNozzo said dryly as he opened the door. "Gibbs, McGiggle, Captain John Patrick Mason." McGee frowned.

"'The Rock'?" Tony brightened.

"Good job, Probie! He's actually Mossad Officer Mason Levy, but there's no point in learning that. There'll be another guard tomorrow. Come on in." He escorted them into the house, leaving Officer Levy outside before locking and bolting the door.

"What's with the Mossad security detail?" McGee asked, glancing down as he set his bag on the floor. "Oww!" he exclaimed as a hand came in very sharp contact with the back of his head. He looked up to see that Tony's light mood had completely disappeared, replaced with a dark and angry expression he had only seen Tony wear a few times: after Kate died, after Director Shepard died, after Vance broke up the team.

"I don't know, Probie," Tony said, his voice now mocking. "A guy with a swastika tattooed on his chest shot Ziva's father at Mauthausen and then pointed his rifle at her. Oh, and he wasn't supposed to be there and wasn't supposed to know that _they_ were there and no one knows how he found out or who he's working for, so what do you _think_ is with the security detail?"

"Hey!" Gibbs interrupted loudly. McGee was thankful for the interruption; he was afraid Tony was going to strike him again. Actually, he wasn't convinced that he still wouldn't. "Where's Ziva?"

That finally distracted Tony from his glare in McGee's direction. "She went upstairs to make some phone calls a few hours ago, Boss," he said. "Hasn't come down since. Don't know if she's still on the phone or if she's sleeping. I'll go up and tell her you're here."

"I'll go with you," McGee offered without thinking. He braced himself for another head slap, but Tony only glared.

"I will hit you again," he said warningly. "But for your own sake, no. If she is sleeping, she's a very light sleeper and has a gun under her pillow. Not a good idea to startle her. On second thought, why don't you go ahead? I'll stay down here where it's safe." McGee murmured an apology.

"There is no need." All three men turned to the stairs to see Ziva descending toward them. "I am not asleep." McGee had to admit, she looked very well kept-together; he had seen her look worse when cases had gone bad. Her eyes were currently clear, although he thought he saw some redness from where she had been crying before. He involuntarily glanced over at Tony to see that, again, the senior field agent seemed to flip a switch on his emotions: gone was the dark anger, replaced by the previous light mood. "Gibbs, McGee," Ziva greeted with respective nods. "I am glad you could come."

Gibbs didn't hesitate to fold the Mossad liaison into his arms, and not for the first time, McGee was taken aback by the relationship between Gibbs and Ziva. It was something he had a hard time putting into words when he was writing _Deep Six_, and he still couldn't quite put his finger on it. Definitely nothing romantic, but not quite father-daughter or boss-employee, either. They understood each other in a way that none of the other team members—not even Tony and Ziva—truly did, which was rather remarkable, considering that Gibbs killed her brother. Or maybe that was it; maybe they understood each other _because_ Gibbs killed Ari. McGee was still surprised sometimes by Ziva's ability to detach herself from her emotions while working, so she of all people would be able to accept, and maybe even condone, Gibbs' actions.

What did surprise McGee, though, was that while Ziva didn't protest Gibbs' embrace, she didn't exactly welcome it with open arms, so to speak. When Gibbs had murmured something for her ears only, she had only nodded and pulled away—and right into Tony's arms. Well, not really into his arms; he had almost casually draped his arm over her shoulder and pressed his lips to her temple before releasing her, but not before a subtle relaxation of her features, a very brief, blink-and-you-will-miss-it expression of comfort and sense of belonging.

Gibbs hadn't blinked.

It was quick, just as quick as the change had been on Ziva's face, but McGee didn't miss the look on Gibbs' face in response to the one on Ziva's. It was the same look Charles McGee had worn the first time he realized he realized that Sarah wasn't going to be his little girl forever, that there would be men other than her father whom she would want to spend time with. McGee wondered if this was the first time Gibbs had experienced that feeling, the one that he never got to experience for real, on account of his daughter's murder eighteen years ago.

There was no triumphant expression on Tony's face, no indication that he was thinking anything about being the one who got the girl; there was no indication that he noticed Gibbs' reaction or that his actions had any ulterior motive other than to provide what little bit of comfort he could. He looked perfectly natural as he returned his attention to the group. "Dinner first, then we'll talk shop," he declared decisively. He turned to Ziva. "Does that pizza place deliver?" he asked with a wide grin.

She gave a small sigh as she pulled her phone from her pocket. "I will find out," she said. "If not, Officer Levy will take our orders to the restaurant."

"It is a pizza place; you sure you don't want me to call?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Has your German improved significantly in the last week?" He grumbled something in reply while Ziva collected McGee's and Gibbs' orders. Gibbs had muttered something that didn't sound like any pizza toppings McGee had ever heard of, but Ziva seemed to understand. He himself decided on pepperoni, figuring that not even Austrians could screw that up. Tony's comments made him wonder.

"You may want to rethink that, Probie," he commented with a chuckle. McGee guessed by the slight smile on Ziva's face that that was an inside joke. Tony squeezed Ziva's shoulder lightly and gave her a wide grin. It was strange; it had only been a few weeks since the last time McGee had seen the two of them together, when he drove them to the airport before leaving for Tel Aviv, but somehow in that time, those little gestures between the two of them that had made McGee so uncomfortable then no longer bothered him. He didn't know what it was exactly, if it was the fact that they were still together in light of everything that was currently going on in Ziva's life or something else, but McGee was beginning to realize that their relationship wasn't going to be going away, and it was about time that he got used to it.

---

Ziva had taken two bites of her pizza before getting down to business. "There were six of us," she began. "Director David, myself, and the security detail, which included three Mossad officers and Tony. For once, Officer Aaron Zirwas, Director David's aide—"

"You don't have to keep calling him 'Director David', Ziva," Gibbs interrupted. "We know who he is."

She gave a nod. "Officer Zirwas was not with us at Mauthausen, as it was not a business trip and no business was to be discussed. My father and I were separate from the security detail. It was believed that the Memorial grounds were secured, so there was no need for a set agenda or path. It was not a standard security formation. As there was no pre-determined path, it was not possible to have guards in front of us. Instead, there were two—one on either side of me and my father—in line with us, several meters away. The remaining two, Officer Kreutz and Tony, were several meters behind us." She took another bite of her pizza, barely tasting it. "The security protocols were inadequate after we had reached the _Todesstiege_—"

"'Stairs of Death'," Tony translated. She nodded.

"At that point, two members of the detail should have been positioned in front of my father and I, and two behind. However, the two officers who were parallel to me and my father dropped behind, so all four were behind us."

"Leaving openings to the front and sides," Gibbs filled in.

"Yes," Ziva confirmed with a nod. "My father and I had stopped on the third stair. We were talking about something… difficult, and had stopped walking in order to face each other. The gunshot came from the stone wall of the quarry. The report was not loud, which made me suspect that it was a sniper. I pulled my Sig and ran up the stairs to where I believed the gun shot had come from and found the shooter directing his rifle at me. I shot him before he could shoot me." She felt Tony squeeze her thigh under the table, but didn't change her expression. This was work time; she didn't need his comfort.

"Have you ever seen him before?"

"No," she replied. "I spend a surprisingly little amount of my time with people with swastika tattoos," she added dryly. Tony gave a quick snort of laughter and she realized that that would be something that _he_ would say. She sighed inwardly at the realization that she was picking up some of his more annoying habits. "As I see it, there are two explanations—"

"Either he was after your father, or he was after Jews," Gibbs finished for her. She nodded.

"Yes. If it was the latter, there is a possibility that he had been waiting there for awhile, perhaps since before the Memorial closed last night. However, that is the less likely of the scenarios."

"Because they wouldn't have known that your group was Jewish?" McGee asked. Tony had a look on his face that said he would have smacked the junior agent if he were close enough.

"Allowed private entrance to a concentration camp memorial before it was opening?" he asked mockingly instead. "Doesn't take a trained investigator to figure that one out, Probie."

Ziva ignored him. "It is less likely because it was Saturday," she explained. "If he were after a random Jewish visitor, he would have had more luck on a Sunday. And it would be rather coincidental that the first Jewish visitors were the director of Mossad and his entourage."

"And you know how we feel about coincidences," Tony added. Gibbs just nodded.

"So he was after your father," he summed up. "The question is—"

"How did he find out he was going to be there," Ziva finished for him. "Only a very small number of people knew about the trip—Tony, myself, Officer Zirwas, and Officer Kurowski of the security detail were the only ones who knew the specifics. The rest of the detail was not filled in until we had arrived. The Memorial's director, Dr. Rachel Schloss, had also been told. We will need to find out from her whom she had shared that information with. It should not be difficult to run those backgrounds." She saw Tony frown slightly, but didn't turn to acknowledge him. "We should get started right away."

"We'll start in the morning." She frowned at Gibbs' words, but knew better than to argue with that tone of voice. "Get your rest tonight. We're not going to stop until we've got this one figured out."


	42. Chapter 42

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 42**

* * *

Tim McGee woke the next morning to the sounds of arguing, and felt, strangely enough, like he had arrived at home. Not the home where he grew up, where his parents got along better than any other married couple he had ever heard of and his much-younger sister looked up to him far too much to fight with him, at least until she reached her teenaged years. No, this wasn't _that_ home, but the place where he spent the vast majority of his waking hours now that he was an adult.

After a lengthy argument between Gibbs and Ziva the night before about whether or not they should start their search in the evening or wait until morning—which Gibbs won, because he was Gibbs—Tony had shown Gibbs and McGee their rooms. Well, to be accurate, he had shown Gibbs the safe house's second bedroom, and grabbed a spare blanket and pillow for the couch for McGee.

And that was why he was in the living room, hearing the strains of a stewing argument that was laced more with amusement than anger just outside the door, and it was so familiar that he would have grinned if it weren't for the fact that he was exhausted from the time zone differences and how incredibly stiff he was from sleeping on the hard couch.

"Because I had the _plague_, Ziva." Tony's voice became clear as the door opened. "The doctors said I won't ever have the same lung capacity I used to have."

"It was barely seven kilometers—"

"_Miles_, Ziva. How many _miles_ is that?"

"We are in Austria, Tony. They use the metric system here. And stop trying to distract me from how pathetically slow you were running."

"Hey!" McGee finally protested, sitting up on the couch. Both Tony and Ziva blinked in surprise, and then had the good graces to look embarrassed. "Can't you guys sneak back into the house _without_ starting a fight?"

"We are not fighting," Ziva quickly denied.

"And it started about a mile ago," Tony tagged on, "not when we were sneaking back in. And we were hardly sneaking. We just, well, forgot that you exist."

"Thanks," McGee muttered sarcastically. He rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?"

"A little after 0600," Ziva replied after hitting a few buttons on her GPS running watch. "Sorry we woke you."

"It's okay," he replied with a sigh. "Gibbs'll probably be down to wake me up soon anyway. I guess this means I'll be able to grab a shower before he gets up."

"Not likely." All three turned their heads to see Gibbs quickly descending the stairs, his hair wet from a recent shower. He left through the front door without any explanation, leaving all three staring at the door, confused.

"Does he realize—," Ziva began.

"That we're in Austria and he doesn't speak the language and doesn't have a car?" Tony finished.

"Yeah," McGee answered. They all looked at each other for a moment. Ziva was the first to break the silence.

"I am going to take a shower and then start on breakfast," she declared, heading for the stairs. Tony shrugged.

"Guess I'm checking my email until it's my turn," he said nonchalantly, reaching for the laptop he had left on the dining room table the evening before. McGee frowned.

"You mean you guys don't…" He trailed off, not really knowing why he was asking. He gave himself a mental head-slap as Tony glanced up at him with a faux-innocent expression.

"Seeing a woman naked before marriage is a sin, McFather McGee," he mocked, somewhat snidely. He rolled his eyes. "Let's get something straight before we all find ourselves back in DC working together—our personal life, none of your business."

McGee frowned. "Since when? You _always_ talk about your personal life."

"Since my personal life involved someone who throws knives with remarkable accuracy. Go upstairs and get your shower. Ziva doesn't like it when people are late for breakfast."

---

Gibbs returned to the safe house about half an hour after he left, with a cup of coffee in hand and a scowl on his face. He didn't explain, and they knew better than to ask, although DiNozzo was tempted to very innocently comment that they had a coffee maker in the kitchen.

Gibbs and McGee filled Ziva and Tony in on what they had learned from the .BK—the Austrian FBI—the day before as they ate the breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and roasted potatoes that Ziva had prepared. After Tony cleaned up in the kitchen, Gibbs barked off their respective orders, and all four immediately got to work.

DiNozzo didn't even know how many hours had gone by, sitting at the dining room table with McGee, staring at his laptop until he could no longer focus on the screen. Gibbs and Ziva had left some length of time before to check in with Dr. Rubenstein and the hospital's pathologist to go over the results from Director David's autopsy. "There is nothing more boring than running background checks," he moaned. McGee barely looked up from his laptop before back to what he was doing. Tony frowned; he knew McGee was working, but he hated being ignored. He grabbed the closest thing within reach—in this case, the bowl of wrapped candies on the nearby counter—and began flicking them at the junior agent.

"Hey! Tony, I'm busy! Can you please _try_ to be less annoying when you're bored?"

"What're you working on?"

"Officer Aaron Zirwas," McGee replied, his eyes again on his computer. He frowned and slowly looked up again. "Hey, isn't that who—"

"Never mind that, Probie," DiNozzo interrupted quickly. "Let's trade. I'll take Zirwas, you take Madame _Doktor_ Schloss."

"No," McGee refused bluntly. "I know how to do my job, Tony. I can do a background check just as easily as you can. Maybe easier." He paused before asking, "What is it about this guy? Why did Ziva want Abby to look into his background, before her father was even killed?"

"That's Ziva's business," he said flatly. "Trade with me." He reached for McGee's computer, but the younger man pulled it away from him.

"_Talk _to me, Tony," he said, his voice low and intense. "What is with the secrets? What is going on? This isn't you and Ziva against the world. We're your friends, too. We're _Ziva's_ friends, too. You need to _trust_ us."

He was about to again retort that it was none of the junior agent's business and that they needed to trade assignments, because he really couldn't find a way to put his thoughts into words for McGee. Ziva had barely been able to put her thoughts into words for him. "Ziva's spidey sense was going off," he finally said. There didn't seem to be a better way to explain.

McGee blinked, trying to decipher the words. "You've met the guy," he finally said. "What's he like?"

DiNozzo frowned. "Ziva once described him as a Jewish male version of Jardine," he said. "But to me, Zirwas seems like a combination of Jardine and Lee."

"As in, committing treason and espionage and keeping secrets?" McGee asked as if trying to keep up. Tony just shook his head and rose from his chair, pacing between the kitchen counter and the wall of the dining room.

"No, not Agent Lee of the Legal Department, the Probie Lee. The hall monitor. Always trying for praise and being awkward about it, that sort of thing." He paced a few more steps, sorting out his thoughts. "Director David was diagnosed at the beginning of July last year," he finally said. "Officer Zirwas was promoted to aide only a few days before the final diagnosis, and for no apparent reason. He wasn't a remarkable analyst, didn't seem to have any exceptional skills. The timing and the reasonings just seemed strange to Ziva. And then there's the fact that he always seemed so nervous, especially around Ziva. I don't know, maybe the guy was just the type to be intimidated by beautiful women, and Ziva's pretty intimidating in her own right, but it seemed like the longer we were there, the more nervous he got."

"Like he was planning something and was afraid that Ziva would find out," McGee chimed in.

"Yeah, something like that." He frowned and continued his pacing, not even noticing the frown on McGee's face.

"You're pacing," the junior agent remarked.

"So?"

"So, you don't pace," McGee explained. "That's Ziva's thing. She's always moving around when she thinks. You don't." He smirked slightly. "You're starting to pick up on her traits. You guys are acting like an old married couple."

DiNozzo winced slightly at the choice of words, not really appreciating the reminder of his impulsive actions the afternoon before. "Don't go there, McGoo," he muttered darkly. He sighed and tried to sort his thoughts. There was more to this Zirwas puzzle, he could just feel it, but couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.

"So that's why Ziva had Abby check out Zirwas?" McGee asked. "Because of this nervousness?"

"Well, that and the strange timing of his promotion," DiNozzo elaborated. "I think there was something else bothering her, too, but she wouldn't say." He wondered if it had been a question about Zirwas or the constant nagging she had had in the back of her mind since her father asked her to help him frame Hamas for his suicide. _That_, he wasn't going to bring up to McGee; that was most definitely Ziva's business.

"He wasn't at the Memorial," McGee suddenly commented, remembering. "And Ziva said that that was odd, because Zirwas went everywhere Director David went. Do you think he didn't go because he knew that something was going to happen?"

"Yeah, McGee," he said softly. "That's exactly what I think happened."


	43. Chapter 43

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 43**

_A/N: I've had a few questions in previous chapters about the Ari history in this story. I had my own theories about how it was, which canon pretty much destroyed with that picture of Ari, Ziva, and Tali as children, but this idea came before that, so I stuck with it. In my own little world, Director David never publicly acknowledged that he had a son at all, and Ziva didn't know anything about him until she had already moved out of the house. Just thought I'd put that out there before people got confused about a couple of lines in this chapter._

* * *

Ziva David didn't end up going into the morgue with Gibbs to talk to Shmuel and Dr. Herz about the autopsy results, because as soon as she stepped into the hospital, her phone started ringing and hadn't stopped. She spoke politely to the Israeli president's administrative assistant—honestly, when did secretaries stop allowing themselves to be referred to as such?—who assured Ziva that she and her staff would see to the arrangements of Director David's state funeral. After that, a personal call from the prime minister, who offered his sympathies. Each of the four deputy directors of Mossad did so as well, and then a long conversation with Aunt Nettie assuring the elderly woman that she was fine and that she didn't need Nettie to worry about anything to do with the funeral.

"Ziva?" She glanced up to see Shmuel standing at the open doors of the morgue, a barely-concealed expression of concern on his face. "We are about to prepare your father's body for the casket, if you would like…" He trailed off, obviously not knowing what to say. She only nodded and rose from her seat, walking past him to enter the morgue.

Gibbs was standing a respectful distance away, by an x-ray light box, his expression blank and looking strange without his cup of coffee. A rabbi was standing at the foot of the stainless steel table, a plain coffin next to him. He nodded once, deeply, and stepped away. She wondered if he disapproved about the fact that she wasn't wearing black or that there were no tears on her clothes, but decided that if he wasn't going to comment, she wasn't going to waste any time thinking about it.

She didn't know how much of an autopsy Shmuel and Dr. Herz had performed, and didn't care to ask. Her father's body was already dressed in the _tachrichim_ and _avnet_, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from pointing out that he wouldn't care about such things. His head was also covered, probably for her benefit, and again, she had to keep herself from telling them that it wasn't necessary. After all, she had seen his body and the giant hole in his head the day before. "Anything unexpected?" she finally asked, her voice even, speaking in English for Gibbs' benefit.

"I went over the autopsy findings in detail for Agent Gibbs," Dr. Herz stepped in. "No, there was nothing unexpected." He left it at that, and she nodded, not having realizing until that moment that that was all the information she wanted to hear.

Without really knowing why she was doing it, she lifted the linen covering his head. His hair was still damp from being washed by the rabbi, his features distorted from the gunshot and the autopsy. She hadn't done it to confirm for herself that he was dead; she felt no differently in that moment than she had the day before, when she had run back down the stairs after shooting Öggl, back to her father. Tony had tried to hold her back, but a few choice words reminded him that she didn't need protecting. He looked so different in death than he had in life; everything that had seemed to make him him was gone, leaving behind only the collapsed shell of an old man. Still, she studied those almost-unrecognizable features for a moment before her hand gently touched his cheek. "_Shalom, _Papa," she murmured. She stepped back, returning the cloth to her father's face before glancing up at Shmuel. "Thank you," she said simply. Turning to the rabbi, she told him, "You may finish."

"Did he have a _tallit_?" the rabbi asked, referring to a prayer shawl. She shook her head.

"No," she replied flatly. He did have one, somewhere; she had once seen a picture of her father as a _bar mitzvah_ with the shawl over his shoulders, a _kippah_ on his head, but had never seem him dressed as such in her life.

He nodded at the response. "Would you like to stay as we finish the preparations?" he asked politely. She shook her head.

"That is not necessary," she replied bluntly, softening slightly before adding, "but, thank you." She turned to Gibbs and nodded that she was ready.

---

Dr. Shmuel Rubenstein didn't know the names of either of the Mossad officers who accompanied their small entourage as he walked with Ziva and Agent Gibbs back to the safe house, but neither seemed to care about their presence, so he didn't waste any effort thinking about them further.

He walked in step with Ziva, taking note of her confident stride and the constant movement of her eyes, continuously sweeping her environment. Not for the first time, he wondered at the training that caused such automatic responses. "Are you okay?" he asked her quietly in Hebrew. He figured by the way she always switched to English when speaking around Tony that she didn't like excluding others from her conversations, but she didn't correct him.

"Yes," she replied simply, also in Hebrew. She turned her head to face him. "Really, Shmuel. I have been preparing for this for over a year. I am fine."

"The funeral?"

"A state funeral in Jerusalem, with full honors, according to the president's assistant," she replied. "They are taking care of arrangements. The burial will be in the family plot outside Haifa."

"I had forgotten that your father was originally from there," he admitted. "That is where Tali is buried, isn't it?"

"And my grandparents," she replied with a nod.

"And your brother?" She spun toward him, her eyes narrowed dangerously, and for the first time since he was ten, he was truly afraid of her. He had a sudden flashback of broken glasses and a week with a black eye, and wished he had remembered that the fact that Eli David had a son was not common knowledge.

"How did you know about that?" she hissed. He swallowed and took a step back, glancing nervously over at Agent Gibbs, who appeared completely unaffected by what he was seeing.

"I was your father's physician," he finally replied, "and a geneticist. We tend to put a lot of emphasis on the family history." Her expression didn't change, but she turned away from him and continued walking. They had walked several blocks before she spoke again.

"No," she said softly. "He is not. His mother was not Jewish, so therefore, neither was he." He flinched; he had known that, but had forgotten.

"Right," he murmured. They walked the rest of the way to the safe house in tense silence, but he placed his hand on her arm to stop her before she could follow Agent Gibbs into the brick building. "I know you have been preparing for this for awhile now," he said, his voice low and serious, "even though it didn't quite happen as you expected it to, but the death of a loved one, whether expected or not, is not meant to be easy."

She didn't say anything for a moment, her movements slow and steady as she removed his hand from her arm. "I already have a boyfriend to tell me that it is okay to grieve," she said, her voice flat. "I do not need to hear it from you as well. I have told you both, I will grieve in my own way, when this case is over."

"Ziva—"

"My father was not your father, Shmuel, and I am not you. You may think you know what my life was like, because you lived one building away from me until you were eighteen, but you have no idea. Dealing with death is not a new event."

"I think that if either of us were capable of sitting down and comparing the numbers of dead that we have seen, that the results would surprise you." A quick expression of confusion crossed her eyes, and he smiled sadly. "We may not see death from the same perspectives, but to accuse me of not knowing how to handle it is to show your own ignorance. Learning how to detach oneself from the death we see on a regular basis is almost part of the medical school curriculum, but if I didn't go home and tell my wife how I felt when I watched another patient die, if she didn't cry on my shoulder every time she saw a child succumb to Tay-Sachs or Gaucher's, I don't think either of us could cope."

She opened her mouth to reply, but before she had the opportunity, the door opened again, revealing a man Rubenstein had yet to meet. His eyes went from Ziva to Shmuel and back a few times, a puzzled expression on his face. "Uh," he finally said, still appearing to try to figure out what the story was, "I was just wondering if everything's okay out here."

Ziva sighed as she pushed past this newcomer to enter the house. "You can tell Tony that I am fine, McGee," she said brusquely. "And tell him that I will personally break the neck of the next person who asks if I am fine." She didn't bother to give Shmuel another glance.


	44. Chapter 44

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 44**

* * *

They wasted no time after Gibbs and Ziva returned—bearing a tense-looking geneticist—to get back to work. "DiNozzo," Gibbs barked. "Report."

"Right," he said quickly, hazarding a sideways glance at Ziva. She was stiff with barely-concealed anger, which he was sure he'd be hearing about later. He was sure that that had something to do with the waves of nervousness coming off of Shmuel Rubenstein, and guessed that the physician had again reminded her that it was okay to show grief. He wondered if Shmuel knew how difficult he was making Tony's life. "Officer Zirwas contacted Dr. Rachel Schloss directly on Friday morning to set up the director's visit to the Memorial. According to her, it wasn't the first request from a VIP to have a private visit. They actually have protocols put into place for this kind of thing, which they followed to the letter. She told nobody about the identity of the visitor, what country he was from, his reasons for requesting a visit, or how many people were accompanying him. The Memorial has a rabbi on staff, Rabbi Amos Eisner. He was contacted about the possibility of coming in on Saturday. I talked to him earlier today, he said that he told Dr. Schloss that if he was needed, that they should send someone by foot to the synagogue—"

"By foot?" McGee asked, confused.

"Can't drive on the Sabbath, Probie," DiNozzo replied. "Anyway—"

"Get to the point, DiNozzo."

"Right. Sorry, Boss. Dr. Schloss, Rabbi Eisner, Officer Kurowski, the Memorial's rent-a-cops—all clean. That leaves—"

"Officer Zirwas," Gibbs interrupted. DiNozzo blinked, then wondered why after working for Gibbs for eight years that he was still surprised by the man's superpowers.

"Aaron Mayer Zirwas," McGee picked up automatically. "Born 1981 in Schwäbisch Hall, Germany. Family immigrated to Israel in 1992 when he was eleven. Spent three years in the IDF in the Intelligence Corps, unit eighty-two hundred."

"Eight-two hundred," Ziva corrected. She turned to Gibbs. "It is responsible for signal intelligence and cryptography, comparable to the NSA. Sorry, McGee." She gestured for him to continue.

"Uh, that's okay. Applied for Mossad training, was picked up as an analyst, also completed officer training for the IDF in a reserve capacity. Current rank is _Segen_—uh, lieutenant. Fairly unremarkable career both in Mossad and the IDF for almost four years until he was transferred to the Office of the Director fifteen months ago. No reason for the transfer listed, but I guess when the director makes a decision, he doesn't need to explain himself."

"What was the date of his transfer?" Tony turned to Ziva with a frown, to see that thoughtful expression on her face that said she was trying to work something out in her head. She had told him a few days before that she was sure the transfer occured before the diagnosis and was probably just trying to confirm that.

"Uh, June 27, 2008," McGee replied. Ziva turned to Shmuel, who just looked confused. After a few seconds, he seemed to know what she was thinking and shook his head slowly.

"The final genetic test results didn't come in until July 3," he informed them.

"What're you thinking, Ziva?" Gibbs asked. She shook her head.

"I do not know." DiNozzo frowned, trying to put pieces together in his head as he finally caught up to what she began to suspect a few days before. Could Director David have been planning his suicide all along? He tried to remember what Shmuel had said about diagnosing the director with APBD—something about headaches and tremors that had brought Eli David in to see Rubenstein in the first place. Could he have suspected that it was something serious and began planning his death back then? If that was the case, why ask Ziva for help a year later?

His train of thought was interrupted by the chirping of his computer. Knowing who it would be, he opened the window for the video chat without a second thought and was greeted by strains of music and angsty lyrics: _Mama, we're all gonna die… _"Hey, Abs," he greeted. "_My Chemical Romance_? Isn't that a bit mainstream?"

The goth forensic scientist made a face. "Yeah, I know," she admitted. "Jimmy made me a mixed CD when he started here, and it was so sweet that I didn't have the heart to tell him what I really thought of it. I still play it sometimes because it makes him happy. He's been pretty bummed lately since everyone's gone, so I thought it would help cheer him up."

Tony grinned. "Trust Palmer to resort to the mixed CD."

"Yeah, I'm sure you never did anything so lame."

He snorted. "You kidding? There was no bigger panty-peeler in the late 80's/early 90's than a mixed tape. I think every OSU cheerleader got one at some point."

Abby's dark eyebrows rose. "How long did it take them to realize that they were copies of the same tape?" she asked in a teasing tone. "Does Ziva know about this?"

"I am right here, Abby." Tony widened the view of the webcam to reveal everyone sitting around the dining room table. Abby brightened.

"Hey, guys! I'm sorry about your dad, Ziva."

"Thank you," she replied with a nod.

"What've you got, Abs?" Gibbs interjected before Abby could go off on another tangent. She put a mock-pout on her face, which made Tony smile.

"Gibbs, you should know by now that good news is typically accompanied by a Caf-Pow."

"Gonna have to wait until we're back in the same zip code," he replied.

"Well, okay," she conceded. "But I'm only letting you off the hook because you're in Austria." Gibbs smiled slightly.

"Very kind of you."

"I am a kind person." She frowned. "Hey, who's the new guy?" Everyone's heads turned to face Dr. Shmuel Rubenstein, who blushed at the attention.

"That's Dr. Rubenstein. He was Director David's physician," Tony explained.

"Oh. I was worried that you were replacing me."

"No one could ever replace you, Abs."

"That's very sweet, Tony. He's kinda cute, in that awkward geeky kind of way. But that's a good thing! Awkward geeky guys are the best. Just look at McGee."

"Hey!"

"Abs, he can hear you," Tony said patiently. He grinned. "And I hate to break it to you, but he's married. With kids. Four of them."

"Oh, well," Abby replied with a shrug. "So, back to business. Gibbs gave me a cell phone number to run yesterday. It's registered in Vienna, Austria, to a—"

"Klaus Öggl," Gibbs interrupted. "We know that, Abs."

"Patience, Gibbs. Revealing such a big clue is an art, and you can't rush art."

"Can and will," Gibbs countered. Abby nodded her acceptance of that fact and continued.

"Not too much exciting on his call logs," she said. "Most of the outgoing numbers are local calls, in Vienna. It was only in the incoming calls that we got something unexpected." She went to her computer, seeming to have forgotten that they couldn't see what was on the screen. "This number. It's a cell phone with in Israeli country code. Now, when I found that out, I asked myself why a guy with a swastika tattoo—they revealed that on ZNN, by the way—would be taking calls from someone with an Israeli cell phone, so I ran the number, and you guys are _not_ going to believe who it came back to."

"Mossad Officer Aaron Zirwas," Gibbs stated. Abby blinked.

"Gibbs! You have got to stop giving me evidence to run when you already have the answers! Do you know how long I spent on this?"

"You did good, Abs." He turned to the rest of the team. "Anyone know where Zirwas is now?"

DiNozzo frowned. "His safe house is right next door, but I haven't seen him since Friday morning," he admitted. "He's behind this, there's no way he'd be sticking around."

"I guess it's a good thing you had me run that number after all, Gibbs," Abby chimed in from DC. "After I found out who the number belonged to, I put a trace on the phone. By the way, Gibbs, it's _really_ hard to explain to the CIA why one of our GPS satellites is following a phone in Europe, but fortunately you gave me that Interpol number, or I'd be sitting in some sort of federal penitentiary instead of my lab, and then I wouldn't have been able to call you to explain what I had found."

"The point, Abby?"

"The cell phone is still on and being used. I tracked it to the InterContinental in Vienna," she summed up quickly. Ziva, Tony, and McGee all rose to their feet, grabbing for weapons. Shmuel looked a little intimidated.

"That's good work, Abs," Gibbs said, rising to follow. "There'll be a Caf-Pow on your desk as soon we return." He disconnected the webcam and turned to his agents. His eyes fell on Ziva and he shook his head. "Not this time, Officer David."

"Gibbs, he—"

"We need him alive," he said bluntly. She flushed, her eyes narrowing into a glare, and Tony did not want to be his boss at that moment. He was almost surprised when she nodded her agreement. Before returning to her chair, however, she stopped in front of Tony and stared into his eyes for a long minute, her expression veiled. She pulled him in to her by the front of his shirt and kissed him hard before saying anything.

"Do not let him get away."


	45. Chapter 45

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 45**

* * *

NCIS Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs calmly turned a page in the folder resting on the cheap wood table, ignoring the blond man sitting directly across from him. Bringing in Mossad Officer Aaron Zirwas had been surprisingly easy; the young aide was all but waiting for them in his fifth floor room at the InterContinental, lounging on the couch watching tv. He had risen in surprise when they entered, reaching to draw his weapon, but quickly reconsidered at the sight of the barrels of three Sig Sauers pointed at him. Even after he surrendered his weapon, though, DiNozzo had kept his pointed at the Mossad officer, his face tight with an expression of anger and tunnel vision. It had taken Gibbs' sharp yells to get the senior field agent to finally lower his Sig.

He would deal with him later.

Getting Harmon Diederich of the .BK—Ziva had informed him of the abbreviation; referring to them as the '_Bundes_-people' hadn't been great for international cooperation—to agree to allow him to do the interrogation had also been surprisingly easy. In fact, the Austrian investigator had wryly asked if he would like to use the interrogation room with no observation bay and no recording equipment. Apparently, the Austrians take capturing Neo-Nazis very seriously. "Mossad Officer Aaron Mayer Zirwas," Gibbs finally said, slowly pronouncing each syllable. "You screwed up." The younger man blinked at the words, a quick expression of confusion crossing his face, but quickly recovered, his jaw set as he turned away. "Oh, you're going to want to talk to me, Officer," Gibbs said, almost mocking. "It's either that or I call Officer David."

That got a reaction from him. "You cannot," he said quickly, fear in his voice. "She will kill me."

"Yup," Gibbs agreed. He took a sip of his coffee, continuing to watch the blond man.

"I did what I had to," Zirwas said, almost pleading. "You must believe that."

"Hey!" Zirwas jumped at the shouted syllable. "You don't get to tell me what to believe! You set a man up to be assassinated. Not only that, you arranged to have it done in front of his daughter, who you are _damn _lucky is not here right now!" Zirwas set his jaw and again looked away, prompting Gibbs to reach over and grab his jaw, forcing his eyes back onto him. "You put my people at risk," he finished, his voice low.

"She is not one of 'your people'," Zirwas finally spat, his eyes narrowed.

"She's certainly not one of yours." Before the younger man could react, Gibbs reached forward, ripping open the dark polo shirt to reveal the tattoo on the Mossad officer's left chest. "Somehow, I doubt that's standard issue in Mossad. So what was the plan, Zirwas? To strike a blow to Israel with the death of the director of Mossad, or were you after Jews in general?"

Zirwas looked confused for a second, then horror-stricken. "No!" he exclaimed. "I _am_ Jewish… It was an op!"

"An op for _who_?" Gibbs demanded. The whole interrogation was going in circles, and he just wanted answers.

"Director David!" His eyes were wide and pleading, as if that expression would get any sympathy from Gibbs. "The tattoo… it is henna."

"Henna?"

Now Zirwas looked confused. "To make fake tattoos," he explained. Now that he said it, Gibbs thought he remembered Abby saying something during the Paulsen case about being able to tell the difference between real and fake tattoos. He made a mental note to call her and ask, depending on what he learned from the interrogation.

"The op," he said flatly. "Talk."

Zirwas stared at him for a long minute, his jaw set, and expression of reluctance on his face. Gibbs could practically see him trying to weigh the pros and cons of revealing what was likely a personal mission straight from his late director. He wasn't in the mood to play games and pulled out his cell phone. "Who are you calling?" Zirwas asked nervously. He didn't respond as he pretended to use speed dial.

"Ziva? Yeah, we got him." He paused, pretending to listen to a question. "Where? We're at—"

"No!" Zirwas exclaimed. He tried to leap across the table at Gibbs' phone, but the shackles held him back. "It started over a year ago," he said quickly. Satisfied that the Mossad officer would talk, Gibbs snapped his phone closed. "Director David approached me and said he had a job that required my qualifications." He closed his eyes, his expression almost painful. "I should have said no. I was blinded by my ambition and my pride. I should have realized how little sense it is for a director to need a signal analyst for an aide."

"What'd he have you do?"

"At first, nothing more than one would expect from an aide," Zirwas continued. The more he spoke, the more confident his voice became. "He would ask questions about my family and my childhood. I thought he was being polite." He gave a sarcastic snort. "Director David does not do anything without an ulterior motive. He is… purposeful." Gibbs thought back to a pool of blood on a basement floor and a woman too young for that kind of life and wondered what the purpose was there. "He began to reveal things about his own life, and again, I thought it was a sign of his trust of me, but—"

"But he's purposeful."

"Yes." Zirwas took a deep breath. "He made several trips to Austria, and he told me in January that it was because he was seeing a physician here. At first, I thought it was because he did not trust Dr. Rubenstein, but then he told me it was because he was receiving treatment for a fatal disease. I thought he told me because he was to resign, until…"

"Until he asked you to arrange his assassination."

The Mossad officer nodded. "He did not do so at once," he explained. "The request was a gradual one. He would speak to me in German at times. I thought he did it because of my childhood—"

"He was assessing your accent." Zirwas nodded.

"He would ask seemingly random questions about social situations in Europe or what I thought about operating undercover. I was foolish. I thought being undercover would be a great adventure. I did not think it would end as this." He gestured at the concrete walls around him.

"When was the mission finalized?"

"When Director David was scheduled for this return to Vienna," Zirwas explained. "His daughter accompanying him to Mauthausen made for a believable cover."

"Was telling Klaus that he could kill Ziva part of the cover?" Light blue eyes blinked at the change in Gibbs' tone, from his previously conversational tenor to the sudden harshness. He reluctantly nodded.

"It would not have been convincing for an anti-Semite to insist that only one Jew be killed," he said as if confessing. "I was sure to stress that Director David was to be the primary target, and that nobody else was to be killed until his death. Director David was confident that his daughter could kill Öggl before he could kill her." Gibbs stared hard at the young man, enough to make him squirm, but he didn't say anything. For Eli David to have risked his own daughter's life on the uncertain hope that Ziva was faster was inexcusable. Yes, she was well-trained and in the four years that she had worked for Gibbs, he had seen more than a few demonstrations of that fact, but even in her hands, a Sig Sauer was hardly a match against a sniper rifle. He couldn't imagine what would motivate a father to make that decision.

He tried to change his focus from that back to Zirwas. "Klaus Oogle," he said. He couldn't quite figure out how it was that Diederich kept pronouncing it. Zirwas opened his mouth to correct him, but then seemed to think better of it and closed it again. "He on the list?"

"The list?" Zirwas asked warily. Again, Gibbs had to resist the urge to smack him.

"The list that both the director of Mossad and Prime Minister have possession of," he said impatiently. "Enemies to the state of Israel marked for _metsada_ assassination."

Zirwas looked like he was about to deny the existence of such a list, but then thought better of it. "No," he declared. "Öggl was a… pansy? He was merely a mean to achieve the end." Gibbs didn't bother correcting the idiom as he rose from the table and headed for the door. He had nothing more to say; the nervous young Mossad officer was telling the truth. "What will happen to me now?"

He turned back and faced Zirwas. "I'll tell Tel Aviv you're ready to go back to work."

"You are not turning me in to the _Bundeskriminalamt_?"

"You done anything wrong?" He didn't wait for a response before opening the door to the interrogation room, finding himself facing Officer Ziva David, a Sig Sauer in her hand and a murderous hardness in her eyes.


	46. Chapter 46

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 46**

* * *

Gibbs wasted no time in slamming Ziva against the wall of the hallway, pinning her back by the shoulders. She struggled against him, but he figured by the fact that he was still standing that it wasn't her best effort. "You don't want to do this," he told her, his voice low. She stopped struggling and took a shaky breath.

"He killed my father," she finally said.

"You sure?" She deflated slightly as she slumped against the wall, not meeting his eye. He gently took the weapon from her hand and stuck it in his waistband at the small of his back, noticing as he did so that she had never disengaged the safety. "How did you know we were here?" He asked the question, but he had his suspicions. Sure enough, she looked away, refusing to answer. "DiNozzo tell you?" he asked sharply. She looked back up at him, but didn't say anything, her expression giving nothing away. Gibbs gave a frustrated sigh; he'd have to deal with his senior field agent later.

"It was an op, yes?" Ziva asked in resignation. Gibbs frowned slightly before realization set in.

"You knew." She didn't meet his gaze as she nodded. After a few more seconds, he realized he wasn't surprised about that fact, but he was disappointed that she hadn't come to him with that information. It would have saved a lot of time with the investigation. "You didn't stop him."

"Do not think that I did not try," she snapped at him, her eyes narrowed in a glare. "He may have been a bastard, but he was still my father." She looked away again. "We were close once," she said softly, more to herself than him.

"What happened?" he asked. She turned back to him, a slightly puzzled expression on her face.

"About why we are no longer close?" He shook his head.

"The op."

Now it was her turn to shake her head, but not at his words. "It was not an op," she said. "Not officially." It took him a minute, but he was able to hear what she was saying, as well as what she _wasn't_ saying.

"Suicide by perp." She flinched at the term, but reluctantly nodded. "And you found out."

"Of course I found out," she said bitterly. "He asked me to arrange it." She shook her head. "Not Zirwas. He never told me about Zirwas." She looked away again, her jaw set. "The plan he had asked for my help with involved Hamas and suicide bombers." Her eyes weren't focused on anything in particular, and he could tell she was working things out in her head. "He had this planned all along," she finally murmured to herself. "That is why he chose an inexperienced intelligence analyst to be his aide. It was not for his skills, but for his German background." She lapsed into silence again. "He knew that his prognosis was bad, even before Shmuel had given him the diagnosis. He had been planning his death for over a year."

"Looks that way," Gibbs confirmed. He wondered how she hadn't been able to figure that out sooner until she turned to face him, a hurt and conflicted look in her dark eyes.

"Then why did he ask me to help him organize a Hamas attack?" she asked rhetorically. "Was this a test of my loyalty? To see if I would do what he asked, no matter how repulsive?" She angrily wiped a tear from her cheek, her shoulders beginning to shake in silent sobs. The last time he had seen her like this was three years ago, when she had come to his hospital room in efforts of getting him to remember his life back at NCIS. "Had I not already done that? I agreed to be a control officer for my own _brother_. I attempted to help a man I knew was a murderer and traitor from your country because of my _loyalty_. I shot—." She couldn't finish that sentence, her words choked by her sobs. Gibbs grasped her elbows, keeping her upright as her body shook from the conflicts she had held inside most of her life. "I did that," she finally managed. "I did that, because that was my job, those were my orders, that is what my agency needed me to do. I have never been anything but loyal, yet my father felt the need to test that loyalty." She finally looked back up at him. "It would have sent Israel toward another war, but that did not matter to him as much as the idea that he could control his officers, his own _daughter_, to do what he wanted."

"No," Gibbs said flatly. She frowned at him and looked ready to counter that word, but he didn't give her the chance. "He knew he had your loyalty. This was more than that. This was making sure you knew how to think for yourself." She just looked puzzled at his words. "Organizations need people who follow orders without question. People like Zirwas. You can find those people anywhere. It's hard to find leaders, people who actually know _what_ they're doing and _why_."

The emotions were still playing across Ziva's face. "How did he know I would say no?" she finally asked.

"He knew you were ready." She didn't appear convinced, so he continued. He didn't think he would ever respect Eli David for what the man had done to his children, but as a man who was once a father, the last thing he wanted for Ziva was for her to go her entire life hating him. "If he wanted you to do this, he would have given you orders a year ago, instead of grooming a probie. You're a damned good agent, Ziva. He knew that."

She wiped away another tear, and the minutes of silence stretched on to feel like hours. "What happens now?" she finally asked.

"Write a report. Turn it into Tel Aviv."

"No." The word was emphatic and accompanied by an equally emphatic shake of her head. "Suicide is… unacceptable."

"Unacceptable?"

"It is… difficult, to explain, but in Jewish tradition—"

"You become more observant since you left DC?"

"No. And my father was not observant, either. Obviously." She looked away, then back before she started speaking again, her voice picking up tempo as she went. "He could not get a Jewish funeral if he committed suicide. And then it would make people ask questions, questions he did _not_ want to have to answer, which is why he did not resign his post when he was diagnosed—"

"You want me to bury evidence."

"You have done it before."

"Ziva—"

"You owe me, Gibbs."

"You collected."

"You did not want to stay in Mexico."

"I _liked_ Mexico."

"You were bored." He had nothing to say to counter that, and they again lapsed into a long period of silence.

"What will happen to Zirwas?" he finally asked. She shrugged.

"He will go to an analyst post somewhere and stay there for a long career. He will tell anyone who will listen of his fifteen months as the aide to Director Eli David." She took a deep breath and shook her head slightly. "Öggl was played, but it was a game he did not mind playing. He got what he deserved. Anyone who could be hurt by you staying quiet is dead." Her eyes were surprisingly clear as they bored into his. "My father is dead, Gibbs. I have spent my entire life trying to do right by him, and for once, I can do that. I am asking for your help."

He didn't say anything for a long minute, and then nodded almost imperceptibly. "Everything we've found suggests that Oogle was just in the right place at the right time." He smirked. "Until he ran into Ziva David."

She actually smiled at that. "Take me home, Gibbs?" He offered his arm and escorted her away from the room where Aaron Zirwas was waiting to be released to Tel Aviv, toward the car that would take them back to the safe house, where the closest thing to family that Ziva had left was waiting for their return.

---

Tony DiNozzo jumped to his feet at the sound of a car pulling up to the safe house. "Ziva," he said, more to himself than to either Shmuel or McGee. He didn't know what he thought would happen a few hours before when he told Ziva where Gibbs and Zirwas could be found, but part of him was kicking himself for that decision. The other part was hoping she killed him in a slow and painful manner. Anybody who had hurt her like that deserved to be hurt just as badly.

He stepped out of the house as Ziva and Gibbs stepped out of the Suburban, and didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around her. She returned the embrace, and he could practically feel how much more at ease she was than she had been since their plane took off from DC weeks before.

Unfortunately, that didn't last. "Ziva, inside," Gibbs barked. "DiNozzo, stay." That was rarely a good sign. He didn't know what to make of Ziva's smile before she pulled his head down to kiss him before retreating into the safe house. He figured it either meant that everything was okay or that she never expected to see him again. With Gibbs, either could be a possibility.

Gibbs waited until Ziva had closed the front door to the brick townhouse before smacking DiNozzo on the back of the head—hard. "Boss, I—"

"Shut up," Gibbs interrupted harshly. "Listen closely, because I'm only going to say this once." Tony blinked in surprise, but nodded his agreement. "Relationships—real relationships—are hard work, and don't even think about making some joke about how many times I've been divorced." He wisely kept his mouth shut. "You may think that everything's going to go well forever, because the two of you have somehow managed to make it five months without either of you fatally wounding the other, but it's not. Eventually, fighting about how to load the dishwasher is going to stop seeming cute and fun and it's just going to be tedious. And you better believe that I'm serious when I say that you need to keep it out of the office. When you both come back to work, you'll be spending your days pretending you aren't sleeping together and your evenings pretending you aren't working together, and that's going to be damned hard to work through. There are going to be days that you're both going to want to kill each other, and if you keep acting the way you did today, don't be so sure that I won't actually do it."

"Your point, Boss?" Tony asked through gritted teeth. He didn't appreciate anybody telling him how things were going to happen in his relationship with Ziva, especially a man who had been divorced three times.

"Stop confusing your personal life with your professional one." DiNozzo blinked; that's not what he expected to hear. "You almost got a man killed—twice—with your actions today, first in the hotel and then with telling Ziva where Zirwas was. You can't forget who you're sharing a bed with just because you're sharing a bed with her."

"That's not what happened today, Boss."

"Yes, it is. You told your girlfriend where to find the man who arranged her father's death and forgot that you were also telling a trained killer. You have to remain objective if this damned thing is going to last."

"Objective?" He gave a sarcastic laugh. "How the hell am I supposed to remain objective? I love her. There's nothing objective about that."

"Don't think I don't know that," Gibbs snapped. "Why the hell do think there are rules? If you're going to keep breaking it, you're going to have to try harder than you have been."

DiNozzo barely resisted the urge to shoot back about unrealistic expectations, but he did. The silence stretched on between the two men before Gibbs nodded once, indicating that he had nothing further to say. He started to turn back toward the house, but Tony's next words stopped him. "I asked her to marry me," he blurted out, not sure why he was saying anything. Just as he expected, that stopped Gibbs, causing the older man to turn back to face his senior field agent.

"Congratulations in order?"

Tony snorted. "No. That's the damned problem." His jaw again set, he looked away, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. "She doesn't believe me, doesn't trust me, I don't know what the damned issue is, but she said no. Or not yet. I don't know what she said, but it wasn't yes." He forced an exhale through his teeth before turning back to his boss. "I _am_ trying, Boss. I'm trying to be who she needs. I'm trying to show her that I'm here for her. That's why I told her where you were." He looked away again. "I don't know how to be who she needs me to be."

"She doesn't need anything from you, DiNozzo." He frowned, confused, but Gibbs wasn't done. "She doesn't need anything more than who you've always been."

"I have no idea what that means, Boss," Tony confessed. To his surprise, Gibbs smiled slightly.

"Why the hell do you think I've been divorced three times?"


	47. Chapter 47

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 47**

* * *

NCIS Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs was silent as he walked by the baggage claim. The flight from Vienna to Dulles had been long, of course, but he slept through the majority of it. He'd have to remember the next time he ran into anyone from Mossad—other than his liaison—to thank them for the first class seats. It had given him enough privacy to ignore McGee's awkward attempts at conversation. He would have thought that after so many years on the team, McGee would know better by now.

"Uh, Boss?" the aforementioned junior agent asked, waving toward the carousel. Gibbs just held up his carry-on and continued walking.

"Already have mine, Elf Lord," he replied.

"Well, uh, my bag—." He stopped talking when Gibbs stopped and turned back toward him. He began to squirm under Gibbs' stare before his boss spoke.

"When your bag gets here, go home, McGee," Gibbs said. "It's late. I expect you on time tomorrow, with or without jetlag." McGee blinked at the unexpected kindness, and still didn't know better than to not argue with it.

"Where are you going, Boss?" he asked.

"Back to the office. Reports."

"Oh." He frowned at that. "Boss? Whatever happened to Zirwas?"

"Tel Aviv will take care of him." That was technically true, even though it wasn't quite in the way that McGee would have thought. When he told Ziva that he would bury it, that included burying it from his team. She would probably tell DiNozzo, but that was her prerogative.

"I was just wondering, because you didn't have us fill out any reports, and—"

"Don't think I know how to file a report, McGee?"

"No! I mean, of course you do, Boss, it's just that you usually—," he cut himself off at Gibbs' stare. "You usually do what you want to do," he finished lamely.

"Goodnight, McGee."

"Night, Boss." At least he knew better than to argue with _that_.

The taxi from Dulles to the Navy Yard cost more than Gibbs would have liked, but fortunately, such things were reimbursable. Just as he promised McGee, he spent the next few hours getting caught up on reports. Flying into a neutral country in the European Union to take over an investigation of the death of the director of an intelligence agency did have a tendency to result in an excess of paperwork.

He still had no handle on which time zone he was in or how many hours he had been awake when he turned the plasma in the squad room to ZNN, to be greeted with an image of a crowd around a casket draped in the blue and white of the Israeli flag, the words 'Mossad Director Eli David's Burial In Haifa, Israel' decorating the bottom of the screen. In the quiet of the early morning hours, he turned up the volume.

"The funeral procession arrived at the cemetery twenty minutes ago, followed by the arrival of Director David's family and close friends. A full state funeral for Director David took place earlier this morning at the Great Synagogue in Jerusalem, where he was honored both for his roles as the highest-ranking Mossad officer in Israel and his rank as a general in the reserves of the Israeli Defense Force. His obituary was read at that service earlier today.

"Director Eli David HY"D, general, statesman, and father, died unexpectedly on Saturday, August 29, 2009 in Mauthausen, Austria. He was sixty-six years old.

"Born in Haifa, Palestine on January 17, 1943, Director David joined sisters Netia and Medina and brother Jaron as the youngest child of Yitzhak and Eva David. He would later write that he remembered celebrating in Jerusalem the establishment of the State of Israel with his family, and that those events greatly influenced his decision to enter a life of public service.

"His career began at the age of eighteen, when he briefly left Israel to study at the Military Academy in Sandhurst, England. He returned to Israel four years later and accepted a commission as a second lieutenant in the Israeli Defense Force. He remained as an active duty Intelligence officer with the IDF for the next four years, rising to the rank of captain before making the decision to enter Mossad. He continued his position with the Intelligence Corps in a reserve capacity. At the time of his death, he held the rank of major general.

"Director David married Raisa Adaskina, a secondary school Russian instructor, in 1972, and the couple had two daughters, Ziva and Natalia. His children were a great source of pride for him, and his daughter Tali's premature death at the age of sixteen caused him a pain he never fully recovered from.

"Director David is survived by his sisters Nettie Halutz and Medina Kendis, both of Tel Aviv, Israel; his estranged wife Raisa David of Moscow, Russia; and his daughter Ziva David of Washington, DC. He is preceded in death by his parents, brother Jaron, daughter Tali, and son Ari." Gibbs raised his eyebrows in surprise at the mention of Dr. Ari Haswari, and wondered if it was something that Ziva had insisted be included.

The reporter continued talking, translating the prayers recited by the rabbi, but Gibbs stopped listening, his attention focused on three figures seated at the front. The woman sitting closest to the camera wore a black scarf over her gray hair, a tear on the right sleeve of her black dress. When she turned slightly toward the camera, he didn't really see any resemblance to his Mossad liaison, but he figured that he was looking at Raisa David. Next to her, with her hair uncovered but a similar tear in the right sleeve of her dress, was Ziva, her features completely blank, but her hand grasped tightly in that of Tony DiNozzo. The NCIS senior field agent was wearing his black suit that identified him from a mile—or in this case, several thousand miles—away as a federal agent, the same embroidered yarmulke on his head that he wore at the synagogue during the Grossman mission. Gibbs raised his eyebrows at that; he didn't know that DiNozzo had kept it. Of course, with how serious his senior field agent was about the relationship, he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised.

He didn't know what had been said in the funeral, but the mourners lined up, with Ziva's mother in the front of the line. She took a shovel from a mound of dirt and slowly and methodically threw three small shovelfuls into the grave. She glanced down at the spade for a moment before decisively stabbing it back to the ground and moving away and not looking back. Ziva hesitated for a moment, her hand hovering near the wooden handle. Gibbs watched as DiNozzo placed his hand at the small of her back and bent down to say something in her ear. She nodded slightly before taking the shovel in her hands. Unlike her mother, her actions were quick and purposeful, the shovel heaping. When she was done with her three, she again hesitated before returning the spade to the dirt. She looked to DiNozzo with a questioning glance, and he gave a small nod that Gibbs only picked up on because he knew his senior field agent so well. She waited by his side while he, as well, scooped three mounds of dirt into the grave and returned the shovel to the dirt. He wrapped his arm around her waist and held her close as they walked away from the grave and the cameras.

Gibbs listened to the reporter prattle on for another few seconds before he turned off the plasma. He reached for his keys and made his way toward the elevator. It was over; his agents would be home soon, ready to return to work. It was time to get some sleep.


	48. Chapter 48: Conclusion, Part 1

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 48 - Conclusion, Part 1**

* * *

Tony DiNozzo switched his phone back on as the plane taxied toward the gate at Reagan National Airport, again grateful for the first class seat that Mossad, for unknown reasons, provided him with, and even more grateful for the fact that they flew him into Reagan, which was much closer to his apartment than Dulles. If it weren't for the fact that his apartment was seven blocks from the nearest Metro station, he'd consider telling McGee not to worry about picking him up, but dragging an oversized sea bag for seven blocks after wrestling with it in the Metro was far from his idea of a good time.

He missed two calls during his hours in the air: one from Abby, who had left a long and excited voice mail about his return, and one from an unknown number. "Six-one-four," he mused, reading the area code. Columbus, Ohio. He frowned, trying to think of who could be calling from Columbus that he didn't already have the phone number saved to his phone for. Fortunately, they left a message.

_"Hey, Agent DiNozzo, it's Jake. Sault. At NNMC. Uh, the opening game is tomorrow, and Hallie and I, by some miracle of the Church of Tressel, both have the day off, and since the game's against Navy, Hannah's going to come up so she can watch her alma mater lose dramatically to the Buckeyes. I know Ziva's dad just died, so I don't know if you guys are in DC or Israel, but give me a call if you're planning on going somewhere to watch the game. I know Hannah would love to see Ziva again. I'll probably be at work pretty late tonight, so call me whenever you get this."_

DiNozzo grinned; he had lost track of time and completely forgotten that the Buckeye's season opener was the next day. _Is there a better way to say 'welcome back to the States'? _he mused as he pressed the button to call Dr. Sault back while walking down the terminal. _"Dr. Sault, medicine green team,"_ he heard when the call connected, followed by a distant sound of female laughter.

"I have no idea what that means, Sault, but it sounds impressive," Tony said with a laugh. The intern also chuckled at his own expense.

_"I've been spending too many hours at the hospital. So are you back in DC?"_

"Flight just landed. Ziva's still in Israel. Business with Mossad and her father's estate."

_"Ah."_ There was a pause, and then, _"So are you going to be watching the game?"_

"Rhino Bar and Pumphouse in Georgetown, one hour before kick-off," he replied. "Big event, good times. You know where it is?"

_"Yeah. Hallie and I are still at Hannah and Chris' old place, Rhino's not too far away. Hannah's coming in tomorrow morning."_ The psychiatry intern paused for a beat, and when he spoke again, his voice was a few decibels lower. _"It's too bad Ziva's not back, but she'll be really glad to see you."_

"Yeah." He glanced down the rows of carousels at baggage claim without seeing, remembering the case that started it all six months before. "Looking forward to it. Hope she's not expecting her team to win." Sault chuckled on the other end. "I'm at baggage claim now, should get going. I'll see you at the bar tomorrow."

_"See you there. Thanks for calling back."_ He snapped the phone closed as he joined the ranks of impatient travelers waiting for their luggage to appear. The carousel not even moving yet, he opened his phone again and found that he had to scroll quite a ways down the list of recently called numbers to find the one he was looking for. Hadn't had much of a need to call her when they were spending all of their time together.

He got her voice mail and didn't even bother trying to calculate the time to figure out if she was sleeping, running, or in the middle of one of several meetings with Mossad execs or lawyers. "Hey. Landed safely at Reagan. Pass along my thanks to your Mossad travel agents for the first class seats. Flight home was a hell of a lot lonelier than the flight to Israel, though." He blew a stream of air through his lips. "I'm not going to tell you that I miss you, because it's been less than twenty-four hours since you dropped me off at the airport and you'll just make fun of me. Give me a call when you know when you're coming home, and I'll arrange an embarrassingly fancy welcome-home dinner." He paused again, wondering when he had become awkward on the phone. "I love you, Ziva," he finished with before closing his phone again.

He glanced up again to see McGee standing right next to him, and wondered when he had gotten so complacent that he could no longer sense the younger man's approach. He cleared his throat slightly, preparing to defend himself against an onslaught of mocking, but nothing came. "Good flight?" McGee asked conversationally.

"Could have been better," he replied. He stepped forward at the sight of the familiar drab bag and checked to confirm that it was, in fact, his and not one belonging to one of the many sailors around before pulling it off the carousel. He glanced over at his co-worker before nodding. "Thanks for picking me up, McGee," he said sincerely. The junior agent looked a bit taken aback by the honest thanks and the lack of a nickname, but eventually nodded.

"Least I can do," he said as they began walking toward the parking garage. "Abby wanted to do it, but it's bowling night." DiNozzo chuckled lightly. "And Gibbs—"

"Would never degrade himself to pick someone up at the airport."

"Something like that." McGee popped the trunk of his Audi for Tony's bag. It wasn't until they were navigating the maze that was the Reagan roadway that he spoke again. "This thing with you and Ziva… It's not going to end badly, is it?" DiNozzo frowned at the question, not knowing what he was supposed to say. "Because it's not going to end," McGee clarified.

"No," Tony replied. "At least, I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure it doesn't." McGee nodded, and they drove the rest of the way to DiNozzo's apartment in companionable silence.

---

Just as DiNozzo expected, Rhino Bar and Pumphouse was already packed when he arrived an hour before kickoff. He grinned as he replied, "I-O," to several "O-H"s, accepting claps on the shoulder as he wove his way through the restaurant. It never failed; in the nine months between the bowl game and the next season's opener, he forgot how much fun it was to be a Buckeye during football season. You didn't even need to know the other guy; just show up to the bar in a red shirt and you were instantly best friends.

"Hey, DiNozzo!" He turned at the sound of his name and grinned at one of his frat brothers, now a legal secretary at the Supreme Court. "You look like hell."

He chuckled. "Thanks, Newton," he said dryly. "I'm about seven time zones off," he admitted. "Just flew in from Israel last night."

"Navy's sending you to Israel now?" James Newton asked, seeming impressed. "You reach the big-time since last year?"

"I was always big-time," he joked. "Actually, I was there with the girlfriend."

"You took your girlfriend to Israel?" Newton asked, disbelieving. "Wait—you have a girlfriend? She here? I don't know if I believe it until I see it."

"Funny," he said dryly. "She's Israeli, we went for a family thing. And no, she's not here. Had to stay in Israel a little bit longer. But she'll be here at another game, don't worry."

"I'm still not believing it until I see it," Newton said warningly. "Hey, we have room for one more at our table if you're looking for a seat."

"Actually, I'm meeting some people. You happen to see two Navy lieutenants and a civilian doctor?"

"Don't know about rank, but I think that might be who you're looking for." He nodded at a table halfway across the room. It wasn't hard to figure out who he was pointing at—in a sea of scarlet and gray, Lt. Hannah Sault's blue USNA tee-shirt stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb.

"Thanks, Newton. See you here next week for USC?"

"You know it. We're taking 'em down this year."

"Well, yeah. We won't be dealing with Pac-10 refs," DiNozzo replied with a grin as he made his way over to the Saults' table.

Dr. Jake Sault was the first to spot DiNozzo and waved the NCIS agent over to their table. "We got a pitcher, help yourself," the psychiatrist opened with. "Oh, sorry. Introductions. This is my fiancée, Hallie Schwab, and of course you remember Hannah. Hallie, NCIS Special Agent Tony DiNozzo. He was one of the agents that caught in Mrs. Grossman."

"Nice to meet you," he said to Hallie, who smiled and said the same. She was cute, in that 'girl-next-door' kind of way, like a combination of Natalie Portman and Mandy Moore, but looked so young he couldn't believe she was a doctor. He wondered if maybe that just meant that he was getting old.

Instead of spending too much time dwelling on that, he turned his attention to the other woman at the table. "It's nice to see you again, Lieutenant," he greeted with a nod. "You look good." The last time he had seen her, when he had visited in Bethesda to ask some follow-up questions to Ziva's interview, her eyes were red from crying and black from bruises, her torso all but wrapped in bandages. Now, although her bruises were gone, she had lost weight she didn't have available to lose, giving her an almost weak and frail look.

She smiled slightly in a way that made him suspect that she knew he was lying. "I heard about Ziva's father. I'm sorry."

He nodded. "I'll pass that along next time I talk to her. She's still in Tel Aviv, getting everything settled." A brief look passed her face that told him she had something to say, but it was gone as soon as it appeared, replaced with something akin to amusement as the conversation switched over to pizza and the standard football trash talking.

Jake and Hallie disappeared during halftime to talk to a classmate they spotted on the other end of the bar, leaving Hannah and Tony alone at the table. "How have you been?" he asked, his voice serious. She glanced down at the table as she nodded slowly, her brown ponytail bobbing.

"I guess you can say I'm a work in progress," she finally replied, her voice thick with amused sarcasm. "It's strange. I always knew there was a possibility that Chris would die before me. That he would die young. I mean, we were both in the Navy. He was a dive officer. On a daily basis, he was under thousands of pounds of pressure, with only an air tank keeping him alive. His everyday job involved more danger than most people deal with in a year." She paused, then sighed. "I just never thought that he would be murdered because of me."

"It wasn't because of you," he protested. She rolled her eyes.

"The _Rebbetzin_ shot him so that I would have a chance to fall in love with a Jewish man," she said flatly. "How does that not make it my fault?"

"Hedia Grossman was insane. Believe me, I was there."

She nodded. "I know. And, thank you. For doing what you did."

"I did my job, Hannah. That's all."

"It's not all," she said, her turn to protest. "Jake told me about it. You were undercover for _months_. You were _shot_. Ziva's ankle was broken. That's more than just 'doing your job'. What you did…that's a _mitzvah_."

"Hannah—"

"I can't thank you enough for it, Tony. It doesn't matter what your motivations were. To know that Chris' death was avenged... It may sound cruel, but that's all that matters." She looked down at the table again before meeting his gaze. "You understand that, don't you?"

There was an honesty in her gaze he couldn't escape from. "Yeah," he finally said. "All of it."

The lieutenant nodded. "I knew that look on Ziva's face, when we were talking at Bethesda, because I had seen it in the mirror. When you're in love with someone you shouldn't be in love with and you don't want anyone to find out." She continued to study DiNozzo. "Don't make the mistakes we made."

He nodded and wished Ziva were there to hear Hannah Sault's advice. "It gets easier," he finally said. "It never goes away entirely, and you'll never be the same person you were when you started, but sometimes, that's a good thing."

She nodded again, and he saw the beginnings of a small smile on her lips. "My father is hinting at setting me up with a rabbinical student he's been working with," she commented, sounding amused. She shook her head slightly. "I must say, I never thought I'd become a _Rebbetzin_."

He couldn't help but laugh. "Just lay off the poisons and sniper rifles, and I think you'll be okay." He held her gaze for a minute. "You'll be okay, Hannah. Whether you marry a rabbi or a sailor or a teacher or nobody at all."

"Thanks." She broke his gaze to glance up at Jake and Hallie as they returned to the table. Tony excused himself and made his way to the door, separating himself from the sounds of The Best Damn Band In The Land by the wooden door as his thumb found a familiar number on his phone.

_"Hello, Tony." _Ziva sounded almost amused when she answered the phone, and he couldn't help but smile.

"Come home," he said simply. He could almost hear her smiling over the phone.

_"I am working on it. I will see you soon, Tony. I love you."_


	49. Chapter 49: Conclusion, Part 2

**Truths and Covert Lies: Chapter 49 - Conclusion, Part 2**

_A/N: So, this is it. The last chapter. It's a bit long, so I was thinking about making it two chapters, but ultimately decided that it works better this way. And for everyone who asked about those test results, when have I ever left you hanging? Patience, my dear readers :)_

_As always, I really enjoyed taking you through this story and loved reading what you thought of it. I do have plans for the next story in this little series, but so far, all I have written is a pretty good opening and a not-so-good second chapter. It's pretty slow going at this point, and I don't foresee it speeding up any time soon; med students may have a lot of time for writing, but interns most certainly do not. So, the next story will come when it comes. I wish I could offer you something to tide you over until then (I know, what a lousy time to drop you off with nothing, considering the real show's summer hiatus), but sadly, I've got nothing._

* * *

Ziva David sighed in her impatience as she waited in the outer office of Mossad's interim director, earning her a sympathetic glance from Sarah, the administrative assistant whom Interim Director Ruthven inherited from her father. She knew what Sarah was thinking: only a month ago, there was no way Ziva David would have been kept waiting in that outer office. She wondered if she was being punished for the fact that her father had been promoted over Ruthven three years before. She wondered if Sarah were being punished for something in the fact that she was at the office at such a strange hour.

"Director Ruthven will see you now," Sarah said a moment later, shooting the younger woman another sympathetic glance.

"_Interim _director," Ziva corrected as she rose. Sarah smiled slightly.

"I would suggest you not make that distinction to him," she said dryly. Ziva smiled in response before entering the inner office.

She could still recognize many of the things from the last time she had been in that office, a year before. The large mahogany desk was the same, the portraits of Ben-Gurion and the current president and prime minister were still exactly as they were, the conference table was still present, although rotated ninety degrees from its previous position. But of course, the man behind the desk was completely different.

"Officer David," Ruthven said, remaining sitting. "Please, sit." He gestured toward the chairs on the other side of the oversized desk. Ziva knew better than to sit; like chairs in Interrogation, they were unbalanced and uncomfortable, designed to keep the person sitting in them ill at ease.

"I will stand," she replied, crossing her arms over her chest defiantly. A single eyebrow rose, then fell back as Ruthven shrugged.

"Very well," he replied. "I had the opportunity to review your personnel file earlier today. Very impressive." He paused, making a show of turning a few pages in the thick folder open on his desk. "Considered to be fluent in five languages and conversant in four others, near perfect scores on the firing range, and impressive operational history." He glanced back up at her. "What I can not figure out is why a trained and vetted _metsada_ operative is investigating crime scenes at a fairly unknown American agency."

"It is a liaison position—"

"A liaison position would have you working with their director, likely in anti-terrorism manners, given your background. It would not have you taking photographs of dead sailors and sifting through dirt for forensic evidence." He held her gaze for a moment before turning away in a practiced move of disinterest. "You have done extensive operations in Eastern Europe in the past. You will report to Moscow in four weeks."

"No." The word, bluntly spoken, escaped her lips before she had time to think about it and form a more eloquent response. Ruthven turned back to her, his eyebrow raised. She imagined that even in his previous role as a deputy director, he wasn't accustomed to people speaking back to him.

"The only reason such a position existed, or that you have held it for so long, is because of your father," he said plainly. "In case you have not yet realized, Officer David, your father is no longer here. You can expect your favored treatments to end right now."

"I will not go to Moscow." She said those words with emphasis, lest he not realize that she was serious.

"Those are your orders, Officer David, and if you would like your association with Mossad to continue—"

"Then maybe I would not like my association with Mossad to continue." He blinked, his first real expression of surprise. "I will return to Washington, DC, with or without your blessing, _Interim_ Director." The emphasis on his full title was subtle, but she could tell that it hit its mark.

"That will be difficult, without an official reason to enter the country."

"There are other ways of getting to America." She just hoped that if it became necessary, Tony hadn't recanted his proposal.

Ruthven sighed. "You are not thinking clearly," he said slowly, as if speaking to a child. She felt her face burn in anger; first he makes a point to remind her that he is not her father, and then he speaks as if he were. "You are letting your relationship with Special Agent DiNozzo cloud your reasoning."

She opened her mouth to respond, but the thrilling of her cell phone stopped her. She glanced at the display and smiled slightly. "Speak of Satan," she murmured in English before answering. "Hello, Tony."

_"Come home." _She smiled at the two words and the emotion she could hear behind them. She wondered what he was doing calling; he had mentioned something when she called him that morning—the evening before, for him—about the OSU season opener. She hadn't thought anything would keep him from that game.

"I am working on it. I will see you soon, Tony. I love you." She hung up the phone before she could find herself involved in a longer conversation than she wished to have while standing in her new director's office.

Her movements to return her phone to her belt were slow and methodical, as they were when she pulled her Mossad credentials from her back pocket. "They do this in American movies. I admit, there is a certain dramatic flair to it." She pulled out the single card and harshly slapped it on the large desk. "If Mossad does not want me in America, I do not want to be in Mossad."

He stared at the piece of white plastic for a long moment. "You are acting hastily," he finally stated.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps I am doing what I should have done a long time ago."

He finally leaned forward, but didn't pick up her credentials. Instead, he slid it closer to her. "Take it," he said. "Someday, you may reconsider."

"And until then?" His lips pressed into a thin line before he responded.

"We will review the need for a liaison to NCIS semi-annually," he finally declared. "Your responsibilities will change. This agency does not care about sailors on unauthorized leave or felonious Marines. Expect to be spending more time in your MTAC than at crime scenes." He met her gaze full-on. "I must say, Officer David, that I am disappointed. Your father gave everything to Mossad."

She snatched up the card and stuffed it back in her pocket before turning away. "Why do you think I am not?" she asked bitingly. She didn't wait to be dismissed before striding confidently to the door. Before walking through it, she noticed the simple box sitting on the floor, instantly recognizing the things inside as belonging to her father. She didn't give Ruthven the satisfaction of turning back to look at him before bending down and lifting it into her arms. She made her way out of the inner office and past Sarah's desk without looking at anyone.

She had driven the Maserati to headquarters, and set the box on the trunk as she dug through her pocket for the key. A framed picture near the top caught her eye, and she picked it up, the key forgotten. She could still remember when it was taken; she had just arrived home on leave during her first year in the IDF, eighteen and recently promoted to _rav turai_, kneeling in the courtyard in front of her family's apartment in the olive drab uniform of an enlisted soldier, her weapon partially dissembled in her hands. Her father, also recently returned from a weekend of duty with the IDF, was also in uniform, his the gray of an officer, the rank of _aluf mishneh_ on his shoulders, a similar weapon in a similar state in his hands. He had said something to her and she had looked up at him just as the picture was taken, both smiling at the words, and she was reminded of something Tony had said: _Why is that we're only happy when we're working?_ That had been the case with her father; since she was ten, they seemed to only get along when there was a weapon or a mission involved.

_No more_, she thought resolutely. She was done allowing work to define her personal relationships. She had already taken the first step; now it was time to see if she could keep walking.

---

Shmuel Rubenstein was waiting at the ticket counter when Ziva arrived at Ben-Gurion to check in for her flight. "Didn't think you were escaping back to America without saying good-bye, did you?" he asked, almost teasingly. She couldn't help but smile as she accepted kisses to both of her cheeks.

"Thank you, Shmuel, for everything you have done," she said honestly when they separated. "And, I am sorry. I meant to congratulate you on finalizing Syshe's adoption, but it slipped my mind."

"You had other things to worry about," he said honestly. He pulled two envelopes out of his shoulder bag and stared at them for a minute before handing them over. "And speaking of which, your test results came in yesterday."

She froze, not knowing if she wanted to know, but finally decided that there was no point in having them done if she wasn't going to look at them. "What did you find?" she asked, her voice low.

"You're going to be fine, Ziva," he said, his eyes searching hers. "You're a carrier for APBD, but you won't have it. There is a full explanation of everything in there." He paused. "The second envelope is Tony's results."

"You tested Tony?" she asked. "When? Why?"

"The morning we left for Vienna. Because he asked me to. I did not tell him anything you told me not to say." He paused, then said, "Those are his results, Ziva. They're private. He can discuss them with you if he chooses, but it isn't your place to look."

She nodded. "Thank you, Shmuel." He smiled and nodded as well.

"Stay in touch, Ziva. You know where to find us."

"Yes." She gave him another kiss on the cheek before turning away and heading for security.

It was several hours later before she returned to the envelopes, the slight weight in her cargo pocket increased in her mind as she sat on the flight with nothing to do. She pulled the one with her name on it and turned it in her hands for a few minutes before tearing it open. She couldn't make much sense of the typed words and codes she saw there, but Shmuel's uneven Hebrew scrawl broke it down for her:

_Ziva—_

_The 'N's are for normal, 'X's for abnormal genes. As you can see, you have one normal and one abnormal gene for APBD, meaning that you are a carrier. This means that if you marry someone with two normal genes, your children have a 50% chance of being carriers, but will not be affected. If you marry another carrier, there is a 25% chance of being affected, 50% chance of being a carrier, and 25% of being unaffected. Your glucosan levels were also low, indicating that you will likely never be affected with APBD, even a mild case. However, if you notice headaches, tremors, or the like later in life, I urge you to seek the attention of a neurologist and make sure they are aware of your family history._

_All of your other genes were normal. You are not a carrier for any other genetic disease we tested for. However, this is not an exhaustive list, and there are still some other disorders that, if you have children, could affect them. _

_It was good to see you again, and I'm sorry it was under such unfortunate circumstances. Do not be a stranger. I know you no longer have close family in Israel, but you still have friends._

_-Shmuel_

She read the letter three times, feeling the relief wash over her. She wasn't going to die like her father died, knowing he had a terminal illness and not wanting the world to know. Still, she couldn't help but wonder at the rest of the words, the ones that mentioned children and possible disorders they could have, and her attention shifted to the other envelope in her pocket.

As with hers, she stared at it for a long minute, but this time, debating the ethics of what she was about to do. Those results were private, she knew that, and accessing medical records without permission was a crime, one which could end her time at NCIS before it resumed. Despite knowing that, she couldn't help herself.

Like before, she was met with columns of acronyms and seemingly-nonsense letters, only this time, the explanation was in English, and still with just as poor handwriting. Her eyes skimmed over it, a smile building on her face, before she registered the second sheet of paper, this time in Hebrew. As she read it, her grin widened.

_Ziva—_

_I figured you wouldn't be able to resist. As you can see, Tony is not a carrier for any disease tested, including APBD. Combined with your own results, this means the odds of any children you have with him being affected with APBD are too minimal to calculate. You may have noticed the extra lines on his results; with his family history of ovarian cancer in his mother at age 37, I also ran several cancer panels, all of which were negative. It looks like there is a distinct possibility that you may have him in your life for a long time. However, his cholesterol was slightly elevated, increasing his chances of heart disease. As I doubt convincing him to eliminate red meat from his diet will be possible, I suggest you encourage him to have a glass or two of red wine a day for cardio-protective purposes._

_You are lucky to have someone who obviously cares for you so much in your life, Ziva. Do not be quick to turn him away. _

_-Shmuel_

---

Special Agent Tony DiNozzo glanced up at the familiar _ping_ of the elevator doors and groaned, checking his watch. _Oh-eight-hundred already? _he asked himself in disbelief. It had been awhile since he had pulled an all-nighter on a case, but when trying to track a suspect literally around the globe, with all the time-zone differences that entailed, it had been necessary.

To his surprise, Special Agent Kim Tomblin didn't immediately sit at Ziva's desk—even though she had been there for almost three months, he couldn't stop thinking of it as Ziva's desk—but started gathering her stuff into a box. "Going somewhere, Tomblin?" he asked lightly. She glanced up and frowned slightly.

"Bahrain," she finally replied. "I'm joining Agent Burley's team out there. I have to report in two weeks."

His eyes narrowed. "Bahrain," he echoed flatly, trying to stop the sudden surge of jealousy. _Why does she get to go to Bahrain?_ Of course, she was going as a field agent, not the Special Agent In Charge; he wanted Burley's position, not hers.

Not knowing what he was thinking, she nodded. "I knew the posting here was only temporary, and Bahrain was what I wanted anyway. I know aspects of the culture, I know Arabic, and I've worked with Agent Burley before. And now that Officer David is on her way back—"

"Wait. Stop." He frowned. "Ziva's on her way back?" He pulled out his phone to check to see if he missed any calls, but the screen was blank. "Probie," he called out as McGee stepped into view. "Did you know Ziva's on her way home?"

"Ziva's coming in today?" he asked blankly.

"No, Ziva is not 'coming in today'." DiNozzo spun in his chair at the sound of the familiar and teasing voice on the other side of the partition and grinned at who he saw there. "I am already here."

He wasted no time rising from his chair and making his way to where she stood, all but pushing her into the corner behind the stairs. As soon as they were out of view of the majority of the office, he tilted his head down and captured her lips. "Hi," he breathed when they separated. "You didn't call."

She grinned. "And miss that look on your face?" she asked teasingly before kissing him again.

"DiNozzo, David." They both grinned at the sharp tone of Gibbs' voice. "If you two don't stop playing grab-ass back there, I'm transferring you to weather stations on opposite sides of the equator."

Tony's smile widened; he didn't care what Gibbs threatened them with, it was good to have Ziva home. "Nothing says 'welcome back' like Gibbs in the morning," he commented wryly. She chuckled as they finally separated, right when Gibbs stepped into view.

"Good to have you back, David. DiNozzo, get her caught up on the case. McGee!" He again moved out of view, calling for an update from their junior field agent. Tony couldn't help but laugh before he returned his attention to the woman standing only a few inches from him.

"You coming over to my place tonight?" he asked a few seconds later. She nodded, and he narrowed his eyes at the teasing look on her face, wondering what she was up to.

"I think you would like to pick up your car first, though," she finally commented. She smiled at the confusion on his face before pulling a familiar key from her pocket and handing it to him. "It should be arriving at the port later today."

"Your father's Mustang," he said once he regained the ability to speak. She nodded and kissed him lightly.

"It is yours now. It was always yours." He found himself unable to look away from that small piece of metal, unable to find the words to thank her.

"I called half the car rental agencies in Europe, trying to find a 1965 Mustang to rent while we were in Austria," he finally said. "Closest I could find was a '67. Figured since nobody knew we were there, it would be okay for your father to drive it around a bit." He saw the look on her face, part puzzled and part touched. "It was supposed to come on Sunday. The day after he was killed."

She nodded. "Thank you for trying," she said honestly. "That would have meant a lot to him."

"I wish it could have gotten there sooner," he replied. "Your dad liked his cars, and to not be allowed to drive them… It wasn't fair."

"Life is not fair, Tony. Sometimes, we must make sacrifices." He wondered if there was something behind those words, but didn't get the opportunity to ask before she flipped some sort of internal Mossad switch, instantly getting down to business as she finally headed back toward their desks. "Tell me about this case, Tony. What do you need me to do?"

He grinned, allowing himself another moment to just enjoy being there and having her there before also getting back to business. It was good to be home.

**The End**


End file.
